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BEAUCHAMPE 


OR 


The Kentucky Tragedy 


BY 


WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS 

Author ok “THE PARTISAN,” “THE SCOUT,” 
Etc., Etc. 


Entered at the Post Otticp, N. Y., as second-class matter. 
Copyright, 1884, by John W. Loveli. Co. 


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BEAUCHAMPE ; 


OR, 


THE KENTUCKY TRAGEDY. 


A SEQUEL TO CHARLEMONT. 



BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, 

n 

/UTHOR OF “THE PARTISAN,” “MELLICHAMPE,” “KATHARINE WALTON, 1 ’ 
“THE FORAYERS,” “ TIIE SCOUT,’ “WOODCRAFT,” “GUY RIVERS,” ETC- 


“Maid of Lulan,” said Fingal, “ white-handed daughter of Grief! a cloud, 
marked with streaks of fire, is rolled along thy soul. Look not to that dark- 
robed moon; look not to those meteors of Heaven. My gleaming steel is 

around thee, the terror of thy foes.” 

“ I rose, like a stalking ghost. I pierced the side of Oorman-trunas. Nor 
did Forma Braga 1 escape. She rolled her white bosom in blood. Why, 
then, daughter of heroes, didst thou wake my rage?”— Ossian. Cath. Loda. 





JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

14 ,fc 10 Vesey Street, 


mp' 


William Gilmore Simms’ Worts 

CONTAINED IN 

Lovell’s Library. 


640. The Partisan 30 

648. Mellichampe # 30 

653: The Yemassee 30 

657. Katherine Walton 30 

662. Southward Ho! 30 

671. The Scout 30 

674. The Wigwam and Cabin 30 

677. Vasconselos 30 

680. Confession 30 

684. Woodcraft 30 

687. Richard Hurdis 30 

690. Guy Rivers 30 

693. Border Beagles 30 

697. The Forayers 30 

702. Charlemont 30 

703. Eutaw 30 

705. Beauchampc 30 















ADVERTISEMENT. 


“ Beauchampe ; or the Kentucky Tragedy,” is the sequel 
to the story of “ Charlemont.” The story supposes some 
little interval of time between its opening, and the close of 
its predecessor. The connection between the two is suffi- 
ciently intimate, though the sequel introduces us to new 
persons — the hero among them — who do not figure in the 
first publication. I do not know that anything farther need 
be added by way of explanation. In regard to moral and 
social characteristics, the preface to “ Charlemont” will 
suffice. A few words, perhaps, in regard to the materiel , 
m ay not be amiss in the present connection, to prevent mis- 
taxes, and save the critic from that error, which he occa- 
s: onally makes, of substituting his own point of view for that 
o:* the author — an error which usually results in a mere game 
• '.joss purposes between the parties, which is profitable 
vither. The reader may find or fancy some occasional 
(Terences of fact and inference, date, place, and period, 
Jojween this and other narratives relating to Beauchampe, 
and the famous Kentucky tragedy of which he was the un- 
happy hero. But, as a man of sagacity, he will naturally 
discard all bias derived from any previous reading, ip 


8 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


deference to that which is now submitted him. Ours, in 
the language of the quack advertisements, is the only gen- 
uine article. We alone have gone to the fountain Lead for 
our materials. We have good authority for all that is Lera 
given. We can place our hand on the record a i any mo- 
ment, and we defy all skepticism. Newspapers ar* lying 
things at best — they have told sundry fibs on thi3 Tary 
subject. Pamphlets — and our melancholy history has * > 
duced several — are scarcely better as authorities; — avail 
the dusty files of the court should make nothing against tne 
truth of our statements where they happen to differ. At 
all events, the good reader may be assured that our disa- 
greements are not substantial. They affect none of tne 
vital truths of the narrative. We agree in all wholesome 
respects. Our morals are the same — our results very near- 
ly so ; and if we have made a longer story of the matter 
than they have done, it only proves that we had sc mcc h 
more to say. We need say no more by way of preparative, 
and we forbear saying anything by way of provocative. 
Fall to and welcome ! The fare is solid enough, and, as 
for the spices and the dressing — say nothing in disparage- 
„ ment of these, if you would not incur the maledictions of 
the cook. We Anglicise in this sentence a homely proverb, 
which would scarcely tell so well in the original. 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE RUINED HAMLET. 

Time does not move with the less rapidity because His 
progress is so insensible. His wings may be compared to 
those of the owl and other birds who fly by night. Their 
feathers are fined off to such exquisitely-delicate points, 
that they steal silently through the air, as swiftly as stealth- 
ily, and strike their object without alarming it. So with 
that “ subtle thief” whom men personify as Time. He 
moves like the pestilence, without beat of drum, without 
pomp of banners, with no pageantry of state or terror. ' 
which might warn the victim to prepare his defences. He # 
fans us to sleep as the fabled vampire, with dark wing 
slowly waving over our slumbers, wdiile his sharp tooth is 
penetrating the vital places in our bosoms. 

Five years have elapsed since the period of those melan- 
choly events, which furnished us with the materials for our 
village-chronicle of “ Charlemont.” The reader of that 
legend will not require that we should remind him of its 
sorrowful details. Enough that we tell him that its iuhab 
itants are all dispersed — scattered variously in remote re- 
gions — some silent in the grave — all changed; all under- 
going change ; and that the village itself is a ruin ! The 

1 * 


io 


HKAUCHAMPE. 


vicissitudes of life have told in various ways upon all the 
parties to our former story. Some of them have been kept 
wretched ; others, made so ; while others again, have held 
a sensible progress — onward, upward — to prosperity and 
honorable distinction. Perhaps, we shall gather something 
more definite on this head from the discourse of the two 
travellers, whom we behold alighting from their horses, and 
seating themselves upon one of the hills by which the val- 
ley of Charlemont is overlooked. 

Here, on this very spot, more than five years before, two 
other travellers had paused to survey the natural beauties 
of the village, and to feast their eyes upon the rural aspect 
of its innocent society. At that period, it was compara- 
tively innocent. There was peace within its borders, and 
Plenty sat beside its winter fires, fully solaced by Content. 
But the gaze of those two travellers brought blight upon 
several of its sweetest homes. One of the two, a good old 
man, went on his way, dreaming with delight upon the 
simple beauties and felicities of the little liamlpt. He little 
dreamed that the other, his favorite nephew, had surveyed 
it with far less loving, yet more rapacious eyes — that he- 
would steal back,- alone, in disguise, and penetrate the little 
sanctuary of peace, hiding among its flowers, as a serpent, 
and leaving taint in the place of innocence. The reptile’s 
mission was successful. The home was polluted, the hope 
destroyed, and the little village was no longer the abode of 
peace or happiness. Now we see that it is in ruins— that 
it is deserted of its people — that its old familiar homes are 
solitary, and sinking fast into decay. We may not say that 
all this melancholy change was the fruit of this serpent’s 
visit, but who shall say that it was not ? Who shall meas- 
ure the suffering and loss to a little rustic hamlet from the 
shame and sorrow which defile and degrade one of its 
favorite families. The shadow upon one sweet cottage- 
home casts a darkening atmosphere, in some degree over 
all around it, and lessens the charm which was once enjoyed 


THE RUINED HAMLET. 


11 


by all in common, and takes from the beauty of the general 
landscape. Where the resources of society are drawn from 
natural and simple causes, we all share in the loss which 
proves fatal only to the single individual. 

But, in place of the two former travellers, whose inaus- 
picious gaze was thus full of mischief to the universal beau- 
ties of Charlemont, we see two very different persons. They 
occupy the same point of survey ; they both gaze from the 
same eminence which ere while unfolded the charm of a 
most lovely landscape. One of these strangers, as in the 
former instance, is a tall, finely-built, noble-looking old 
gentleman, whose white head declares him to be fast ap- 
proaching the ordinary limits of the natural life. He was 
between sixty and seventy years of age, though you would 
arrive at this conclusion chiefly from the snowy whiteness 
of his hair, and the serene benevolence of his countenance, 
showing that the more violent passions were now wholly 
overcome, and not from any appearance of decrepitude. 
On the contrary, his bearing is that of a man still vigorous 
in bone and muscle. He carries himself erectly, alights 
promptly from his steed, with the freedom and ease of the 
practised hunter, and there is still, in his movement, the 
evidence of very considerable physical power, if not of en- 
ergy. His eye is still of a bright and earnest blue ; his 
cheeks are but little wrinkled, nowhere much seared by 
either suffering or time, and the ruddy hue which clothes 
them declare equally for health and vigor. 

His companion is a young man who might be twenty-five 
or thereabouts. In respect to frame, size, bearing, he might 
be the son of the former. He is of noble figure and stat- 
ure, of firm, dignified, and easy carriage, and wears a fine, 
frank expression of countenance. The face, though with- 
out one feature like that of the senior, is also quite a hand- 
some one, marked with great serenity, though of a gravity 
which seemed to declare the presence of emotions of a 
nature much more serious than any of those which are 


12 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


caused by thought and study. Though full of intelligence 
and a fine spirit, the expression is shadowed by a look of 
sadness approaching to melancholy. There is a fixedness 
and depth in his eyes — an intensity of gaze — which pene- 
trates you with a sense of suffering and mystery ; suffering 
which has been overcome, but which has left its traces, as 
the fire which has been extinguished, yet leaves the scorch- 
ing proofs of its wing upon the roof and sides of the bright 
dwelling over which it once has swept. His mouth, in its 
rather close compression, confirms the story of his eyes, 
and the beauty of the well-cut lips is somewhat impaired 
by the sternness resulting from this additional evidence of 
trial, and vexing passions. The mystery which you see 
written in the young man’s visage is one that invites to the 
study of that character, which a single glance persuades 
you must be worthy of examination. His movements are 
deliberate, his voice is low in tone, quiet, gentle, musical, 
yet capable of great and sonorous utterance. There is no 
sign of feebleness or indecision of purpose in the move- 
ments which are yet slow. On the contrary, every step 
which he takes is significant of strength — of powers that 
only wait the proper motive, or the sufficient provocation, 
to declare themselves with commanding, and even startling 
effect. As he stands awhile, after fastening the two horses 
in the thicket, and leaning slightly forward, gazes down 
intently upon the valley slope, dotted with the decaying 
cottages, you read in his look and action a further secret 
in which you conjecture a something, which links the fate 
of the lonely hamlet with his own fortunes, and confirms, 
with a deeper meaning, the sorrowful thought, and sadden- 
ing memories, which loom out, darkly bright, in all the 
lines of his strongly-expressive countenance. 

The old man is already seated upon the cliff and looking 
forth in silence. The young one joins him with quiet move- 
ment, and takes his seat beside him. And thus they sat 
together, for sonic time, without speaking. It would seem 


tttE RUINED HAMLe 1 !. 


13 


if they enjoyed a communion of thought and sympathy 
— that neither needed to speak of reminiscences which were 
cherished in equal degree by both, and that, whatever 
uie cause of melancholy reflection, it was shared between 
them. 

A considerable interval of time, speaking comparatively, 
wa j thus yielded up in silence, to sad if not bitter thought. 
At length the old man said : — 

44 We arc here, again, William. It is the same, yet not 
the same. Nature is ever young. Trees, rocks, hills, val- 
leys — these rarely change. Here, without a single com- 
panion, as of old! yet how many of our old companions are 
about us. I feel the former life, if not the ancient feelings. 
Yet what a change. And five years have done it all! 
What a brief period ! Yet, what an eternity !” 

The other did not immediately answer. When he did, he 
said musingly : — 

44 1 sec no sign of human life. I doubt if there be a 
single inhabitant left.” 

44 Indeed, it looks as if there were none. How strange 
is it, that, feeling with the place as we both did,, and do, we 
should have so entirely forborne to keep up any communi- 
cation with it. We know not a syllable of the occasion of 
these changes. How strange that they should have been 
so altered ! Can there have been any epidemic here ? I 
have heard of none. The village was always healthy. 
The place is sweet and beautiful. The people were mostly 
in good circumstances, had few wants which they could not 
satisfy, and seemed happy enough and contented enough in 
these abodes. What was the sad necessity, what the vex- 
ing appetite which prompted their abandonment. Shall we 
descend into the valley and inquire further ? It may be 
that we shall find some lingering occupant in some one of 
the farther cottages. These are evidently abandoned. 
What say you, William ? Shall we feel our way once more 
along the old familiar places ?” 


BEAUtHAMPE. 


14 


“ All ! sir, vvitl. what reason ? Shall we behold anything 
more grateful in a nearer approach. Here, it seems to me, 
we can behold enough for melancholy thought ; and none 
other can we borrow from the associations with this place. 
You see yonder the ruins of my father’s house. It has 
evidently been destroyed by fire — the work, no doubt, of 
some passing incendiary. Yet, among these ruins, I first 
drew the breath of life ; there, I first enjoyed delicious 
hopes, which the same house saw blasted. My father and 
mother are wanderers in the far south, and — I had aban- 
doned them. I would see no more. I wonder at the 
strange anxiety which has prompted me to seek thus much ; 
to come hither, after so long an interval, merely to behold 
a ruin ! I might have known that I should gain nothing 
from such a survey, but the resurrection of mocking dreams, 
and delusive fancies, and foolish hopes — upon which, as 
upon this little hamlet — we may write nothing but the one 
,vord — ruin !” 

A big tear stood in the young man’s eye — a single drop 
--the outburst of emotions that even manhood, filled with 
noble ardor, and moved by great energies, could not utterly 
repress. And again a deep silence, for a while, succeeded 
to this brief dialogue. At length, the old man laughed 
with a subdued chuckle — mixed mirth and melancholy. 

“ Strange, William, that the hovel should so frequently 
outlast the stately hall and tower. Such is the process by 
which Time mocks at pride. Look, where my old school 
hcusc stands as it did five years ago. There you see the 
roof, almost black with age, glooming out beneath the shel- 
ter of green trees. My favorite oaks, William, still stride 
about, like ancient patriarchs, spreading great arms as in 
benediction. Ah ! I could embrace them, every one, with 
the feeling of a son or brother ! How much do they recall ! 
It was under their shade that we brooded over the chroni- 
cles of old Yertot and Froissart together. They have 
g^own together in my mind with these old chronicles, and 


THE RUINED HAMLET. 


15 


I could fancy the knights of the temple and the hospital all 
pleasantly encamped beneath their friendly shelter.” 

“ How strange, sir, that the imagination should thus 
speak out with you, rather than with me. The sight of 
that wild retreat for our rustic muses brings me other 
images and aspects, which appeal only to the affections. 
My fancies, at the sight, bring me glimpses of boyish forms, 
that leap and run along beneath the shadows. Instead </f 
the trumpets of chivalry, I hear only the merry shouts of 
boyhood, such as made this little valley ring with the gen- 
uine music of the heart in those happy, happy days.” 

“ Music ! ah ! my dear boy, I little thought it so, 
when they made my ears ring too, with clamors, which 
made me pray, a thousand times, for the dreamy and sad 
silence, such as the scene affords us now. That I should 
now feel this silence so painfully oppressive, is more pro- 
foundly in proof than any other sign, of the terrible char- 
acter of the human change which the passing time has 
brought. Where are all these merry children now ? The 
memory of those clamorous shouts, and that happy uproar 
of boyhood, comes now with a sensible pleasure to my 
heart, and arouses it with a delicious thrill. And I, who 
bemoaned the fate which fettered me so long in this obscure 
hamlet — dead to the world, and wholly unfruitful — even I 
could be persuaded to entreat of Heaven that the season 
might return once more. I was not sufficiently grateful, 
my son, for the peace — with all its boy-clamors — of that 
rustic solitude. Now, that all is gone, and all is ruin 
which I see, I feel, for the first time, how very precious and 
beautiful was it all.” 

“ You have made all this sacrifice for me, my father !” 
said the young man, while his hand rested fondly upon the 
arm of the other. 

“ It was fit I should, William ; and you have more than 
requited me, my son. But, in truth, there was no sacrifice-. 
There was need of change — for mo an for ycu. My owr 


16 


BEaUCHaMPE. 


heart required it. I had grown a discontent. This unpeP* 
forming life of simple peace and rustic content, is not to 
be allowed to those who have burning thoughts in their 
brains, and earnest desires in their hearts. It is for such, 
only to snatch moments of this sort of life, as it were, for 
rest and refreshment after toils, and that they may recover 
strength for new fields of wrestle, and trial, and perform- 
ance. I had lived in it too long. I vms rapidly sinking 
into all sorts of unbecoming dotages. 1 have grown 
stronger, and wiser, and better, from the change. I do not 
deplore it, though I may look with sorrow over the mourn- 
ful ruins of the once familiar and favorite retreat. It is, 
indeed, a melancholy spectacle.” 

“ And how rery strange that so short a period should 
destroy every vestige of the life and pleasure of the place !” 

“ Shall we wonder, when we see how brief a term is 
needed here to substitute desolation for life, that the great 
cities of the past should leave so few vestiges — that the 
very sites of so many should be forgotten ? Were we now to 
descend among the old thoroughfares, we should possibly 
lose our way, familiar as was once the path — we should 
find ourselves wondering at the decreased or increased 
length of distances, at the great size or the smallness of 
places, the measure of which seems to have been taken on 
our very hearts. We never think of the change in our- 
selves !” 

“ But the fate of the place is still so very curious a mys- 
tery. One would think, from what we knew, that every 
day would only contribute to its utility, and growth, and 
beauty. Here were health, security, sweetness, innocence 
— every possible charm — all that should make a village 
dear to its inhabitants.” 

“Ah! my son, but its inhabitants lacked the all-in-all, 
content. You, for example, to whom this peaceful dell was 
so beautiful, you were one of the first to leave it.” 

“Yes! But not willingly. I was expelled from it by 


THE RUINED HAMLET. 


IT 


cruel necessities, by a harsh and brutal fate. It was with 
no exulting desire that I left its sacred abodes. They 
refused any longer to entertain me. I was driven ruth- 
lessly from the sanctuary which denied me refuge any 
longer.” 

“ And I am one of those who rejoice that you were so 
driven. The necessity which expelled you from the sanc- 
tuary was the mother of a glorious future. It brought out 
the manhood that was in you. It taught you to know yonr 
strength and muscle — forced you to their exercise, and 
will crown your name with honor !” 

“ And yet, sir, I would gladly exchange all that I am — 
all that I. hope to be — for the restoration of that hope and 
home of boyhood, which I was thus driven to abandon.” 

“ No, Willie, you would not. This is only the sentiment 
of a passing mood, which you will not rationally seek to 
encourage. It is better as it is ! You are better as you 
are ; and, to-morrow, when you return to your duties, your 
performances — the toils you have grappled with so man- 
fully — the field into which you have so nobly sunk the 
shaft — you will feel how idle is the sentiment which seems 
so natural to you now. If this was the scene of your boy- 
ish sports and hopes, my son, you are not to forget that it 
was also the scene of your disappointments — your sorrows 
—your first strifes — your bitter humiliations ! Would you 
go over that period of doubt, and strife, and scorn, and 
ehame? Would you feel anew the pang of denial — tin 
defeat and disappointment of every youthful hope ?” 

“ Do not — do not remind me ! It is as you Say ! And 
yet, sir, returning to the subject with which we began, how 
strange that all should have abandoned the village. I was 
the only involuntary exile. I was the only one whom the 
lates seemed resolute to expel. Why should they fly also, 
and so soon after me ? Where should my poor old father, 
John Hinkley, a::d my mother, for example* fiild the motive 
for leaving lb> .1 - where they li^d so long dwelt happily, 


18 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


and, in tlic decline of life, why seek an abode upon the 
Choctaw borders ? It could not be the love of gain ; they 
had enough !” 

u You forget that your father had become something of a 
monomaniac. He followed the ministry of John Cross. 
Your departure, too, my son, had probably something to do 
with it. His stubborn pride of heart naturally kept him 
from making any admissions ; but I have no doubt he felt 
keenly the wrong that he had done you. The discovery of 
the true character of Alfred Stevens must have done a great 
deal toward disabusing him of his superstitions — for they 
were superstitions really — in respect to both of you. What 
does your mother say in her last letter ?” 

“ They are well ; but she mentions, particularly, that my 
father never mentions my name, and avoids the subject.” 

“ A proof that he broods upon it, and with no self-satis- 
faction. Your departure, his, and that of the Coopers, are 
easily accounted for ; and did we know the secret history 
of all the other villagers — their small, sweet, deceptive 
hopes ; each man’s petty calculations, and petty projects — 
all grounded in some vexing little discontent ; there would 
be no difficulty, I fancy, in finding sufficient reasons, or at 
least motives, for the flight of all.” 

“ Still, sir, there seems to be a fate in it !” 

“ Why, yes ; if by this word, Fate, you mean a Provi- 
dence. I have no doubt that these sparrows are all, in 
some degree, the care of Providence ; and, whether they 
fall or fly, the omniscient eye sees, and the omnipresent 
finger points. Your error, perhaps, lies in the very natural 
assumption that mere place, itself, becomes an essential of 
humanity. These wandering hearts do not cease to beat 
with hope, because they no longer beat in the cottage of 
their boyhood. Their limbs do *iot cease to labor, nor their 
minds to think, because they break ground and plant stakes 
in remote forests of the south and west. Mere locality is, 
after all, a very small consideration, in any question of tho 


THE RUINED HAMLET 


19 


interests of humanity. It is the man tha, makes the place 
what it is or should be !” 

“ I am inclined to think, sir, thai wo sbmething under- 
value the social importance of place. A population loses 
something of its moral when it wanders. It substitutes a 
ravage wildness for domestic virtues.” 

“ Granted ! For a time this is certainly the case. But, 
on the other hand, an old locality is liable to suffer from 
the worse evil of moral stagnation ; and the cure of this 
demands the thunder-storm. The extreme conditions usu- 
ally work out precisely the same consequences in the end ; 
and, in the case of society, the locality is altogether a sub- 
ordinate condition. My old trees, there, were very grate- 
ful to both of us ; but I became an imbecile under them, in 
the enjoyment of the dolce far niente — that luxury which, 
has destroyed the very nation from whom we borrow the 
phrase ! And the same delightful condition of won-perform- 
ance, continued for five years, would have ruined you , also, 
for any career of usefulness and manhood. And this 
would have been a crime, my son, as well as a shame. 
Neither you nor I, believe me, were designed for the sla- 
vish employment — however sweet — 

“ To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 

Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair.” 

a I know not, sir, I know not! Fame is something — 
something charming and fascinating — having its uses no 
doubt ; and designed for the natural and gradual elevation 
of the race as well as individual. But the heart ought not 
to be sacrificed for the brain — the sensibilities and affec- 
tions for the genius. There should be a life for each, for 
all ; and to surrender the one up entirely to the other, 
works dismay in the soul, and decay in the sympathies, and 
leaves ashes only upon the hearth of home !” 

“ But why the sacrifice of either, my son ? Who says 
surrender the affections to the genius — sacrifice the heart 


20 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


to the brain ! It is not the counsel of Milton. It is far 
from my wish that you should do so. Nourish both. The 
heart, in fact, the sensibilities, are the absolute necessities 
of genius. The brain, so far from demanding the annihila- 
tion of the affections and sympathies, actually draws con- 
stant food from their abundant sources, by which its own 
strength and vitality are cherished for performance. No 
intellect is in perfect symmetry unless it maintains a con 
stant intercourse with the warmest human affections. It is 
altogether a mistake to suppose that they can maintain a 
separate existence, or that one can preserve its integrity 
without due co-operation with the other. The most healthy 
genius is that which never surrenders its humanity. It 
may suffer disappointment — nay, agony — but it is in the 
very moment of the heart’s worst sufferings that the intel- 
lect is most needed, and it furnishes adequate help for sup- 
port and relief, provided the training of both has been com- 
mensurate to their mutual wants and ‘necessities.” 

“ Ah ! my dear sir,” said the younger shaking his head 
mournfully — “you forget my fortunes.” 

“ Do I ? No, indeed ! I repeat, my son, that your for- 
tunes have been equally beneficial to your head and your 
heart. You mistake, altogether, when you confound a dis- 
appointment — the defeat and denial of a boyish hope — 
with the annihilation of the heart. A hope and fancy are 
repeatedly crushed out of existence ; but we should err 
very greatly to suppose that the life of the affections — the 
heart — had suffered serious hurt. No! no! Believe me, 
your heart is quite as sound as ever. What are the proofs ? 
In my sight, they are hourly present, if not in yours. You’ 
disappointments have saddened your fancies, but have the ? 
impaired your strength ? They have rendered your thoughts 
graver in hue than is usual with your years, but have they 
not acquired in vigor what they may have lost in brightness l 
You do riot play now with thought, but you can work With 
it* as you never did before. You do not sport and ti ;ffe 


fllli RUINED HAMLET. 


21 

tiow with life, but you feel it as a circle spreading every- 
where, connecting you with all the links of existence, ma- 
king you sympathize with all its pulses and vibrations, and 
sensibly lifting your mood to the contemplation of ali ita 
higher offices and duties. In short, you have made a sud- 
den spring from the dreaming, uncaring, unheeding, nature 
of the boy — as it were in a single night — into the active 
consciousness of all the responsibilities, glorious though 
saddening, which belongs to a proper manhood. Mow 
men possess real manhood only in degree with their capa- 
city to perform. Had you been still a dweller in Charie- 
mont — had you gained the objects of your boy desires in 
that place, you would have sunk into the habitual torpor of 
the place. You would never have found out what is in you 
— would have been nothing and done nothing.” 

44 1 might have been happy !” answered the other gloom- 

>iy- • 

44 No ! my son. You would have gratified a youthful fancy, 
and, would have survived it ! This is a common history of 
what is vulgarly called youthful happiness. What would 
have remained to you then ? Misanthropy. The graver 
necessities of the mind take the place very soon of its boy- 
ish fancies, and demand stronger food. Fancy is but the 
food of a thought just beginning to develop. It requires 
strong meat very soon after, and this can be afforded only 
by earnest grappling with care and toil, and trial and pain 
— those angel overseers, whom God appoints, to goad the 
truant and the idle nature to its proper tasks. I repeat 
that your loss in Charlemont is the most fortunate of all 
your gains.” 

44 Would I could think so, my father. Yet her image 
passes before me ever with so pleading a face. I see her 
now, as I have seen her a thousand times among those old 
groves; treading those crags ; gliding, with eager and fear- 
less step down those precipices which conduct to the silent, 
sad, and beautiful tarn, where we were once so fond to 


BEAUCHAMP. 


brood. In my mind’s eye I shall never cease to behold that 
beautiful yet mournful memory — two images, so unlike each 
other, of the same being ; one proud, and brave, and noble, 
like the eagle soaring up in the sunshine ; the other gloomy, 
dispirited, made ashamed, like the same braye bird, with 
wing broken, the film over his eyes, close fettered in a cage 
of iron, and with curious fingers pointing to the earth-spots 
cn breast and pinion.” 

“ A pitiful contrast, in sooth, my son, and such as it is 
very natural that your imagination should frequently de- 
oict before your eyes. But both of these images will grad- 
ually fade from sight. A newer world will supersede your 
past ; new forms and aspects will take the places of the old ; 
new affections will spring up in your soul ; nay, fresh fan- 
cies will wing their way to your heart, and a nobler idea 
of love itself will possess your affections. The heart has 
resources not less fertile than the fancy. God has not 
decreed it to isolation. You will see and feel new plants 
of verdure suddenly appearing upon the waste places ; nay, 
the very heat and ashes of former passions prepare the 
ground for superior plants of more verdure, strength, and 
beauty. The time will come when you will wonder that 
you ever felt the pang and privation which trouble you 
now. Five years hence you will be unwilling to believe 
me when I describe, as I hope playfully to do, the fierce 
troubles of your soul at present.” 

The youth shook his head negatively, as he said — 

“ Impossible !” 

“ One thing is certain, William. You are now confea 
sedly one of the first lawyers in Kentucky. Our little world 
acknowledges your power. If politics were your aim, the 
field is open to you, and it invites you. Yet, five years 
ago, you were desponding on the subject of your capacity. 
Then, you had misgivings of your strength, and fancied that 
your powers but imperfectly seconded your wish. Your 
ambition was then regarded as the dream of a foolish van- 


TilE UUiNED HAMLET. 


23 


ity, which was destined only to rebuke and disappointment. 
Look at your position now — behold your own perform- 
ances. It was but the other day, when Harry Clay said 
to me: 1 He is the most promising of our young men. 1 
would not counsel him to politics ; yet, if he should desire 
that field, he will conquer in it. He has the steadfastness, 
the enlarged view, the industry, and the endowment, which 
will give him rank among the highest whenever he shall be 
disposed to fling off the mere lawyer, and embark on the 
troubled sea of politics.’ ” 

“ In truth, a troubled sea.” 

“ Yes ; but so far a persuasive one to ambition, as, just 
now, it needs such a good helmsman for the ship of state. 
I counsel politics no more than our friend Clay ; but the time 
approaches when no man of mark will be allowed to with- 
hold his seamanship. Keep to the law for the present, and 
wait your time. I would have no son of mine — no friend 
— undertake state affairs of any sort till he is fairly thirty 
or thirty-five. A democracy is the very world in which to 
break down premature young men. It is the very world 
for strong men — naturally strong — who have allowed them- 
selves to harden into perfect manhood before they attempt 
a province in which the wrestle is beyond their strength. 
You are naturally too well endowed and too well trained 
to sink into the mere lawyer. You will never forego the 
nobler powers of generalization in the practice of a petty 
detail. The very troubles of your affections have thrown 
the proper burdens upon your mind ; and you will go on 
conquering, my son, until you have equally purged your 
heart and your understanding of all these delusions. You 
will forget, among other dreams of boyhood, the very one 
which has had such an effect, for good upon your fortunes, 
and for evil, as you think, upon your heart. The image of 
Margaret Cooper will fade from your fancy, or remain only 
as a study, in which you will be just as likely to wonder at 
your delusion as to cherish it fondly. There will come a 


24 


BEAUCHAMPS. 


season when your heart will open to a wiser, and purer, 
and nobler affection — when you will seek and find an object 
of attachment, who will be more worthy of your love, and 
will be better able to requite your desires.” 

“Never! never!- — no, sir, no! I freely tell you that, 
promising as are my social prospects now, honorable as is 
the reputation which I have acquired, grateful as the future 
promises to be to my ambition, I would gladly forego all, 
were I once more restored to that one hope of my b'oyhocd 
— could I attain now, in her original purity, the one being 
who filled all my desires, and might have satisfied all my 
cravings of heart. ” 

“ You think so now ; but wait. Five years have wrought 
the most wonderful changes in your mind. Another five 
years will work other changes, quite as wonderful, in your 
affections. The destiny before you will not be defrauded. 
After all, the heart of man keeps very much in the track 
of his irtellect; and the charm that satisfies the one at 
first, requires in the end to satisfy the other. You will 
f;>rgct — ” 

Here a sudden start and exclamation of the young man 
arrested the remarks of the aged speaker, who, the next 
moment, was confounded to behold his companion rise up 
ai a single bound, and rush almost headlong down the hill, 
lie called to him : — 

“ What is the matter, William ? What do you see ?” 

The youth did not answer, but, throwing out his arms as 
he rail, he pointed to the opposite end of the valley, where- 
following with his eyes, the senior caught a glimpse — but 
a single glimpse — of a female figure, in widow's weeds, re- 
tiring from sight. In another moment the figure was hidden 
from view by the crags of the range of heights beyond. 
The young man, meanwhile, kept a headlong course, still 
downward, pursuing his way into the valley of the settle- 
ment, with the fleetness of a deer. 

“ Can it be Margaret Cooper whom he has seen ?” mur- 


THE HUINED HAMLET. 


U6 

mured the old man to himself, as he slowly rose up, and 
prepared to follow, but more slowly, down the hill. 

“ Can she be here ? can she be living ? and how lias she 
contrived to elude all inquiry ? If it be she, how unfortu- 
nate ! It will revive, in full force, all his wild anxieties. 
It will arrest him in the nobler course he is now pursuing. 
But no, no ! I have better hopes. God will not suffer this 
defeat !” 


Of) 


BEi UCH AMPUL 


CHATTER II. 

THE UNEXPECTED MEETING. 

The live years of lapsing events which, in the career of 
William Hinkley, had brought him to distinction in his pro- 
fession, the esteem of society, the love and admiration of 
friends, had been productive of very different results to the 
woman he had once loved with all the ardor of ingenuous 
passion, and for whom, as we have seen, he still entertained 
emotions, if not affections, of the most tender regard and 
interest. She had sunk from the heights of self-esteem to 
the lowest depths of self-abasement. She, the village- 
beauty, proud equally of her intellect and personal charms, 
had, in this to her dreary interval, been fettered in an ob- 
scurity as impenetrable by others as it was deep, dark, and 
humiliating, to herself. Of the cruel sorrows of this period 
it is impossible to make any adequate record. The gnaw- 
ing misery of hopelessness ; the consciousness of sin and 
weakness ; the bitterness of defrauded hopes, and aims, and 
powers ; the loss of name, position, love ; the forfeiture of 
all those precious regards which are so necessary to the life 
of the young, the beautiful, and the ambitious — these had 
worked their natural consequences, in the thought perpetu- 
ally brooding over the ruin, in which every flower of hope, 
and pride, and love, had been stifled in dust and ashes. 

Yet she lived ! She would willingly have died. She 
prayed for death. She meditated death by her own hands ; 
and it was the indulgent providence of God alone — by 


THE UNEXPECTED MEETING. 


27 


almost direct interposition — that saved her from this last 
dreadful method of escape from the terrible soul-suffering 
of those last five years. 

Strange that she should thus live — with her pride, and 
all her passions, rendered mad by disappointment, preying 
perpetually upon her heart ! For a time, there was a weary 
blank in her existence, in which she did not even dream. 
Her vitality seemed utterly suspended. When she recovered 
from this condition, which was meant as a merciful allevia- 
tion of her acuter sufferings, it was to endure the active 
gnawings of her grief. For another period, her life was a 
long spasm — a series of spasms — in which she was con- 
scious of no security from hour to hour — in which all in 
her soul was in wild uproar and confusion — storm and 
calm alternating ever — and no certainty of life or sanity 
for a single day. That was the period of her greatest peril. 
It had been easy for her then, by a single blow, to end the 
terrible history ; and a thousand times, during this period, 
lid she murmur to herself — 

“ It is surely not so difficult to die !” 

But they watched her ! The deed was prevented. She 
dved, and lived for another passion — darker even than 
suicide, and more deadly. To this she bent all her thoughts. 
To this she gave all her prayers. Shame, defeat, ovc 
throw — the utter annihilation of all her ambitious dr 
— thore brought her none of those humiliations of r 
which the prayer for grace and mercy find their r 
realise the blessed fruits of penitence. The 
humbled her for ever in society, had oid 
pride, not crushed it ; only stung her brr 
soothed it with a sense of feebleness ' 
king it a fit home for gentle though 
and a strengthening humility, 
season, were addressed only tc 
justice which infuses the savage 
vengeance ! — 


ma- 
.esires, 
jY a long 
of that wild 
the dream of 


28 


BfcAtfCHAMPE. 


“ Being mortal still, [she] had no repose, 

But on the pillow of revenge ! Revenge — 

Who sleeps to dream of blood ; and, waking, glows 
With the oft-bathed, slakeless thirst ! — ” 

There was but one victim. But the fates interposed for 
his safety — and her own. She was in no situation to 
gratify her desires. She knew not how to name — knew 
not where to seek — the spoiler of her happiness. She was 
a woman, and must wait her time — wait on circumstance 
and chance, and the favoring succor of that subtle demon 
whom she called upon in place of Doity. And he finally 
responded to her call. 

But there was a dreary interval to be overcome and en- 
dured. 

In this period, her whole person, as her soul, had under- 
gone a curious change. The fair, white skin became jaun- 
diced. The fine, dark, expressive eye had assumed a dull, 
greenish hue, and seemed coyered with a filmy glaze. IKr 
frame became singularly attenuated, her limbs feeble ; she 
frequently sunk from exhaustion, and would lie for hours, 
gasping upon her bed, or upon the dried leaves of the for- 
est, in the shades of which she perpetually sought escape 
from the sight of human eyes. That she survived the long 
strain upon her faculties of mind and body, was wonderful 
to all. Yet she did survive. 

More ! she gradually threw off the feebleness and suffer ing 
of the frame. She was again endowed with a noble hardi- 
hood of constitution. She had a proud, steadfast, enduring 
will. The very working of her passions, now concentrated 
upon a single object, seemed, after a certain period of pros- 
tration, to work for her relief. Gradually another change 
followed. Her skin became cleared. The jaundice dis- 
appeared. Her eyes became healthy in expression — 
bright as before — but rot happy in their brightness; lu- 
minous, yet wild ; of a fk o my beauty, in which the whole 
face shared. She iM vor srrjf! again, 'r-, if she did, it was 


THE UNEXPECTED MEETING, 29 

in a manner to mock the smile with bitterness. Her mind 
resumed its activity, though it still pursued what the mor- 
alist may well call an insane direction, fixed only upon a 
single object, which seemed to supersede all others. For- 
merly, she had felt, and dreamed, and imagined, poetry ; 
now she wrote it — wild, dark, spasmodic fancies glowing 
in her song, which was wholly impulsive, not systematic — 
the effusion of blood and brain working together intensely, 
and relieving themselves by sudden gushes which were like 
improvisations. 

It was sometime after she had readied this condition, 
when, one day, she declared her intention to revisit Charle- 
mont. Her retreat was only seven miles from this spot, in 
an obscure farm to which no public road conducted. 

Her mother somewhat wondered at this desire, but did 
not oppose it. They were both well awarepof the change 
which five years had wrought in the fortunes of this once 
beautiful village. It had been productive of sore loss to 
them in money. They had sold their little cottage, under 
mortgage, and the purchaser had abandoned the property, 
leaving the debt unpaid. Something was said by Margaret 
of the necessity of seeing that the building was kept in re- 
pair, but the suggestion was only made as a sort of pretext 
justifying the visit. The mother very well knew that the 
daughter had another motive. Though by no means a sa- 
gacious interpreter of heart or mind, she yet readily under- 
stood that the proposed visit was the fruit of some morbid 
fancy ; but she did not see tha ; any evil would result from 
suffering Margaret to indulge uer mood ; and, in fact, she 
had long since learned that opposition was by no means the 
process by which to effect her objects with her daughter, or 
to bring her mind into the proper condition in which it usu- 
ally regards the social requisitions as the natural law. She 
offered no objection accordingly. 

The little family carry-all — a snug, simple, box, drawn 
by one horse — was got in readiness, the negro drive? 


so 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


mounted, and the girl departed upon her secret mission of 
sad thought, and melancholy revery, in a region which had 
been the source of all her sorrows 

She sought the old cottage, penetrated its silent chant 
bers, and busied herself for awhile in a search of closets 
which seemed to afford her nothing. Her search led her to 
sundry bundles of old papers. These she pulled apart and 
examined in detail. From these she extracted some scraps 
which she put away carefully in her bag, and after this, she 
scarcely looked at the dwelling, which already needed the 
regards of locksmith and carpenter. 

How soon the favorite place goes to ruin if left to itself. 
There shall be a snug simple house, in which your heart 
first found its want, your soul its first speech, your dearest 
joy its first satisfaction, and five years after you have aban- 
doned it, it will be desolate — the lichen will glide over its 
walls ; the door will fall from its hinges ; the shutter, the 
sash, drop to fragments. Shall time spare us any more 
than our- dwellings ? 

Yet can he not utterly destroy ! 

The heart recognises a soul in the lonely and desolated 
ruin. There is a subtle spirit appealing to you from every 
corner. Nay, you will surely hear voices in the lonely 
rooms which call upon all the affections to restore, rebuild 
— return ! 

Poor Margaret heard these voices all around her. They 
startled her. They seemed to mock her fall — to depict 
the state from which she had fallen — to compare her own 
with the desolation of the scene around her. And finally, 
they spoke in the well-remembered tones of her betrayer. 
She fancied she heard Alfred Stevens close beside her, 
whispering his subtle eloquence — those snares of fancy and 
passion which he had so successfully woven for her ruin. 

And this voice lifted her into strength. Then she re- 
membered that she had an oath of vengeance ; and she went 
forth from the lonely dwelling, only half conscious that she 


TUI JNEXIECTED MEETING. 


31 


wont, and almost heedless of her stops, she took her way 
up the rocky heights to the lonely tarn whither she had so 
often wandered with lam. 

And the past returned to her memory, and filled her 
imagination with all its chronicles of mixed sweet and bit 
ter — pride and shame — and keen was the agony that fol 
lowed, and terrible the oath which she now renewed, of 
vengeance for the wrongs she had suffered and the degra- 
dation which she must perforce endure. She had no fu- 
ture, but in the accomplishment of this one terrible oath , 
and she renewed it with fearful brevity and solemnity in 
the- shadows of those towering rocks, above the deep dark 
waters of the silent lake — by the very scenes which had 
witnessed her overthrow, she called for witnesses to confirm 
her oath ! 

And what a picture to mind and eye did she present at 
that moment — still young, still beautiful — of noble figure, 
commanding form, bright haughty eye, and a face gloomily 
lovely — as she stood forward on the edge of the precipice, 
and looked forth to sky and rock, her hand slowly rising in 
adjuration, as simple as it was stern and imposing. 

What witnesses, of her wrongs and sufferings, her wild 
hopes and haughty aims, and their cruel defeat, were all 
the objects which encompassed her. They were a part cf 
herself. They had taught, informed, encouraged her ni- 
ture. She had lived in and with them all, and all, in tun, 
had infused their nature into hers. These rocks had taught 
her height and hardihood ; these waters, depth and contem- 
plation, and the tender nursing of solitary fancies ; the 
woods had lessoned her heart with repose ; and the skies, 
with their eagles ever going upward, had taught hor aspi- 
ration. 

Very mournful were they now in her eyes, assembled as 
witnesses of her fate. She was their child. Their sad as- 
pects were those of loving parents defrauded of every hope. 
They might well attest with sympathetic sternness of brow, 


32 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


and sadly echoing voices, her brief, savage oath of von* 
geance. 

“ Yes,” she murmured, “ ye were all the witnesses of my 
wrongs, my blindness, my madness, my simple faith, and 
cruelly-abused confidence. Here it was, that I listened to 
the subtle voice of the beguiler, even as the drowsing 
eagle, to the spells of the serpent, while he winds himself 
fatally about the neck of the free bird of the mountain ! 

“Oh! why did ye not fall upon me, rocks — upon both 
of us — ere I hearkened to the lying temptor — who deluded 
me with my own hopes, and made my own daring aspirations 
the very spells by which to destroy me ! 

“ Why, waters, when I fell headlong into your embrace, 
did ye not engulf me for ever. Any fate had been better 
far than this ! 

“ Cruel wast thou, that day, in thy loving-kindness, Wil- 
liam Hinkley, when thou drew’st me forth from their abys- 
ses ! 

“Verily, thou hadgt thy vengeance, William, for all the 
scorn which I gave thee in return for love, in the misery 
for which thou hast preserved me ! 

“Oh! thinking of all that time — of the fond, foolish 
vanity which so uplifted me, only to fling me down for ever 
fi>m my pride of place and hope — I could weep tears of 
bbod, tears of blood ! 

“ But mine eyes are dry. Would I could weep ! 

\ Alas, the sorrows that deny the heart its tears are such 
ciw as fill it with gall and venom ! Wonder not, Alfred 
SteVens, when I face thee with death and terror! — Oh, 
whet 'we meet ! when we meet ! 

“W wo s/iatl meet! I feel that we shall meet. There 
is a whisper, as that of a fate, or a demon, that breathes in 
mine ears the terrible promise. We shall meet! — thou, 
and ij — and — Death !-r~” 

And she crouched down upon the boulder upon which 
She had been standing, on the very brink of that dark an^ 


IrFj i: fEXPECTfel MEE'TTr .- 38 

silent lake, and buried her face within her ir.wids, as if to 
ehut oiit from sight the images of horror which that prom- 
ised meeting had raised up before her imagination. 

JP oor, desolate woman ! There was still a strife in her 
heart, of contending hate and tenderness. The woman who 
has onoo loved, however mistakenly, unwisely, and to her 
own ruin, never altogether loses the sentiment which even 
her destroyer has inspired. It is still a precious sentiment. 
It pleads in his behalf ; and if he be not heartless, and cold, 
and cruel, it will not wholly plead in vain. Mercy will in- 
terpose against hate, and the hand of vengeance will be apt 
to fall nerveless, even when about to strike fatally. 

But mercy does not plead for Alfred Stevens. He had 
shown no redeeming tenderness. lie had proved himself 
heartless — wantonly cruel — indifferent to the desolating 
doom which his guilty passions had brought upon her. Mar- 
garet Cooper could feel tenderness still, but it was not for 
him. Here, her -soul was resolute, her will iron. She did 
not recoil from the horrible deed on his account, but her 
own. It was the recoil of the feminine nature alone, and 
not pity, that made her shrink from the fearful images of 
blood which were conjured up by her excited fancy. 

But, suddenly, in the midst of her dream of terror and 
revenge, she starts — she starts to her feet, with a bound 
that makes the rock vibrate and quiver beneath her, on the 
very edge of the precipice. 

A voice is calling to her from the opposite side of the 
lake. But a single word she hears : — 

“ Margaret !” 

She looks beyond the water, and on a cliff above the lake 
she sees the figure of a man — a noble, graceful figure — 
whom she recognises in a moment. 

“ God of heaven ! it is William Hinkley !” 

The words are only murmured. She waves her hand out 
involuntarily, as if to say : — 


2 ' 


cA BRAUCHAMPR. 

ct i way ! we must not meet ! There must be no speech 
between us !” 

And then she starts, recedes from the stream, and, with 
hasty steps, glides into the cover of rock and forest. She 
was gone from sight in another moment, hurrying down the 
cliffs to the road where her carriage had been left at a little 
distance. 

William pursued — without any purpose, except to meet, 
So see, to speak once more to the woman whom he had 
loved, but with whom, as a single moment of thought would 
have assured him, he could have no closer communion. 

He pursued, but at disadvantage. He was compelled to 
compass the lake which lay between them. He pursued 
with the fleet bounds of the practised mountaineer, over the 
cliffs, and through the umbrage ; but in vain. She had 
reached the carriage ere he had descended from the heights. 
She had leaped in, and, with stern, low words, through 
closely-compressed lips, she said to the negro driver :■ — 

“ Drive fast ! — fast as you can !” 

When the young man descended to the valley-road, she 
was gone. He could only catch the faint echoes of the 
receding wheels. 


Philosophies of age and youth. 


35 


CHAPTER III. 

PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 

“ Now should we make moral anatomies 
Of these two natures — hostile, yet so like.” 

And thus they met — and thus they parted! 

Roth creatures seeking the ideal ; born for other thingd 
than mere bread and meat ; born for love, for performance, 
for triumph ; neither satisfied — both desponding : the one 
with the half-fanciful griefs of youth, which are designed to 
strengthen, even as the obstruction which taxes and strains 
yet expands and improves the muscle ; the other with shame, 
which depresses the energies that it may refine them, and 
humbles the pride that it may waken the heart to becoming 
sensibilities. 

The ono retires from the fruitless interview sad, disap- 
pointed, but, just in the same degree, better prepared to 
pursue one steady aim to right and complete achievement ; 
the other, having her aim also, but one of a kind still further 
to humble pride, awaken sensibility, and, through agony, 
to conduct to peace ! 

Very different their objects, desires, performances; but 
both working out results for humanity, such as, in the prog- 
ress of the life-ordeal, gradually inform society with new 
aspects and properties in man, and unfold the exactions of 
a progress in the ages, whose necessities evolve, through 
vice itself, the true conditions of all virtue. 

Shall they ever meet again, and how ? Shall they realize 


BEAUCHAMPS, 


U 

the vague hopes and objects that now persuade both minds ? 
shall they ever become to each other more than they are 
now? shall he attain greater triumphs of intellect -^better 
securities of the heart ? shall she find the peace which 3he 
yearns for, even more than the wild justice which she seeks ? 
will she regain the wing of her youth and innocence, and 
steadily develop the gradual powers of that ambitious ge- 
nius which, in the very daring and pride of its aim, blinded 
her wholly to the dangers of her flight ? We can not pre- 
scribe the course and conditions of their progress : we must 
be content simply to follow, and, record them. They are in 
the hands of a self-made destiny, and must, because of will, 
and passion, and peculiar aims, determine their own fates. 
It is not for art to pass between, to interpose, to prevent, 
or pervert, or in any way alter, the fortunes of those whose 
own characters constitute the arbitrary necessities govern- 
ing equally their lives and our invention. 

Sad, silent, full of roused thoughts and conflicting emo- 
tions, Margaret Cooper drove home to her obscure farm- 
stead, musing to herself, and murmuring within her soul, 
of the past and of the future. 

That single glance of an old and rejected lover — that 
one imploring word from his lips — smote on her heart with 
a sense of agonizing self-reproach. Her thoughts, framed 
into speech, might have run as follow: — 

“ With him I might have been happy. He was young, 
iruthful, honorable. He loved me: that I felt then — that 
1 know now. He would have cherished me with affection^ 
as he approached me with devotion ! Yes ! I might have 
been happy with him ! — 

“ But I knew him not ! I undervalued him. I regarded 
him as the obscure peasant — having no high purpose — no 
mind — no great thoughts and ambitious fancies — such as 
should properly mate with mine ! 

“ Even in this was I mistaken ! He haa the faculties 
but 1 was not wise enough to see them. 1 was blinded bj 


PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 37 

iny own wandering visions — that miserable vanity which 
relished no spectacle that did not present me with some 
image of myself — which, in perpetual self-delusion, could 
see nothing in the qualifications of another ! 

“ Yet, how bravely and nobly did that young man de- 
clare himself at last ! how wisely did he speak ! how clearly 
did he see the dangers gathering about me ! how, with what 
instinct, did he pierce the secret of that cunning serpent ! — 
while I, who despised him for the very humility of his aims 
— the very modesty of his passion — I could see nothing. 
I was a fool ! a fool ! — blind, deaf, mad ! But for this, we 
might have been happy together. It might have been ! it 
might have been ! 

“ Oh, mournful words ! — ‘It might have been V 

“ Too late ! too late ! 

“ Love is impossible to me now. The dream is gone ! 
the hope — every hope! Even ambition is impossible! 
Alas, what a dream it was ! how wild, how impossible from 
the first! Yet, I believed it all. Fool! fool! as if such 
could be the fortune of a woman ! Here, too, in this sav- 
age region of shadow and obscurity, a woman conquering 
position, high place, high honors, great distinction! And 
I believed it all! — believed him, that treacherous serpent, 
when he crept with the subtle, sweet, lying whisper to my 
heart ! 0 fool ! fool ! fool ! 

“ But I am awake now ! I no longer delude myself ! 
None can delude me now ! 

“ Yet, to lose this so precious delusion ! Oh, the misery 
of this conviction, for in losing this I have lost all ! 

“Yet, was it a delusion? Could I not have achieved 
this distinction ? Is it true that there is no field for wo- 
man’s genius ? is it true that, of all this great country, 
there is no one region where the wisdom and the inspira 
tion of woman can compel faith and find tribute ? is she to 
be a thing of base uses always, as the malignant Iago has 
declared her? God, thou hast not 'designed this -else 


88 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


wherefore hast thou given her the will to soar, the faculty 
to sing, the genius to conceive, the art to refine and beau- 
tify, the sensibilities which make the beautiful her dream 
and her necessity alike ! 

44 It is a mystery — a mystery ! 

44 And I am hopeless ! lost ! loso l All lost — lost to all ! 
Nothing left me but — ” 

She buried her face in her hands ; she shuddered. The 
terrible images, thronging about the one vindictive passion 
which her soul now entertained and fostered, seemed to 
gather before her eyes, and she covered them as if to shut 
out the fearful spectacle. She murmured audibly, after a 
brief pause: — 

44 I would I had not seen William Ilinkley to-day ! The 
sight of him has weakened me. Iiis voice seems to ring 
even now so mournfully in my ears — 4 Margaret !’ 

44 How often have I heard that name upon his lips — so 
tenderly — so pleadingly always— with so much sweetness 
and humility ! 

44 I despised him then. I looked down upon him then — 
with scorn — with contempt. 0 Margaret, Margaret! and 
thou darest not look upon him now ! Shame, shame ! my 
cheek burns with shame, as I think of him, and remember 
the calling of his voice. 

44 Yes ! yes ! we might have been happy together ! 

44 Too late ! too late ! I can be happy no more !” 

W e need not listen any longer to these mournful memo- 
ries of ruined hopes and lost honors, defeated ambition, de- 
frauded affection, bitter self-reproach, and still-sleepless 
and ever-goading passions. We need not follow her to the 
obscure retreat where she has striven for five dreary years 
to bury out of sight the secret of her shame. Enough that 
we have put on record the condition of her moods — her 
broken spirit, her almost purposeless intellect, and the one 
hope — the only one — which she seems to entertain. These 
will suffice as clues for the future, showing the motif, the 


PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 39 

key-note, of much that prevails in the melancholy history 
which follows. 

Let us return to the young man whose disappointment 
we have just witnessed. He, too, as we have seen, has his 
griefs and trials ; but, unlike hers, they are not of a sort to 
bring humiliation in their train. 

When he found his pursuit was vain, and when the last 
faint echoes of the receding carriage-wheels came to his 
ears, he clasped his hands spasmodically together. 

“ She would not see me ! she would not even speak with 
me ! She feels the old scorn ; she knows not that I am no 
longer the obscure peasant that she knew me once !” 

Foolish youth ! as if the fact, even if known to her, that 
he^iad won successes, and was glowing with the prospects 
and promises of fame, would have made her more tolerant 
of his presence. 

It was shame, not scorn, which made her fly from that 
meeting. 

It was a wild and stifling sense of agonizing humility 
that made her wave him off, in despair, as one of the most 
knowing witnesses of her fall from the proud heights where 
he had once loved to behold and do her honor. 

Scorn now for him, on the part of Margaret Cooper, was 
impossible. It was fear, shame, horror, terror — nay, a 
sense of justice, and a new feeling of respect, if not rever- 
ence — that made her shrink before his face. 

Brooding sadly upon his disappointment, with bewilder- 
ing thoughts and conflicting feelings, the young man slowly 
made his way back through the valley of Charlemont, going 
unconsciously among the deserted dwellings, in the direc- 
tion of the heights where he had left his venerable compan- 
ion. As lie passed the schoolhouse, ho heard the voice ol 
the senior calling to him from the 'shade of the great oaks 
by which it was overhung, 

lie joined him in silence. 

The old man was sitting upon the turf beneath the trees, 


10 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


a thoughtful smile upon his countenance. He was once 
more in the well-remembered places in which so many years 
of his life had been spent. Here he had himself mused 
and meditated, from a safe distance, the capricious change^ 
and frauds of busy life among the crowd. Here he had 
given the first lessons, in the humanities, to the young 
man who now made his way in silence and sat down beside 
him. 

“ Well,” said the elder, “ did you overtake her, Wil- 
liam ?” ^ 

“ You saw her, then ?” was the indirect reply. 

“ Yes, I saw a female, in widow’s weeds, but only for a 
moment. She disappeared among the rocks in an instant 
after. I concluded, from the wild haste of your movement, 
that you had recognised her as Margaret Cooper. Was I 
right?” 

“ Yes!” 

“ Did you speak with her ?” 

“No, sir; she fled from me — waved me oft* as I called 
to her, and disappeared in the thicket. When I succeeded 
in getting round the lake where I saw her, she was gone. 

1 could just catch the sounds of carriage-wheels. She still 
scorns or hates me as much as ever.” 

“ She does neither, my son. On this subject you seem to 
lose all your usual powers of reasoning. Margaret Cooper 
would not see, or speak with you, from very shame and hu- 
miliation. Why should she speak with you ? Have you 
anything of a pleasant kind to communicate to each other ? 
Why should she see you ? To be reminded only of a his- 
tory full of mortification to her ! You are unreasonable, 
my son.” 

The other had no answer. 

“And now, William, pray tell me why you desired to 
see her. You have, no doubt, some of your old feelings 
for her ; but is it really in your thought to marry Margaret 
Cooper T r 


PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 41 

“Oh, no, sir! —no! >lcw could yon emoose such a 
thing ?” 

“ I do not suppose such a thing, and thereto^ j say that 
you are very unreasonable, nay, more, unkind ana cruel, in 
your attempt to see her. You have no business with her; 
you have no reason to suppose that you can help her in 
any way; and your passion for her — whatever of it now 
remains — is not such as to prompt you to make her your 
wife. You obeyed only a youthful impulse in desiring to 
see her, without reflecting upon the cruelty of the proceed 
ing. It was this blind impulse only ; for I know you too 
well to think that you would be thus moved by a merely 
wanton, and, in respect to her, a cruel curiosity.” 

“ You are right, sir. It was a blind impulse. I am a 
boy still. I shall never be wise.” 

“ Nay ! nay ! you do yourself wrong. If to be wise re- 
quired that we should never be wrong — should never feel 
an impulse, and in the moment obey it — I should agree with 
you, and argue against your intellect and moral with your- 
self. But, you are simply young, ardent, sensitive, with a 
free gush of blood from the heart to the brain, such as time 
and training only will enable you to regulate. We must 
learn to wait on youth. All in due season. It is enough 
for me to see that you are in the right course, generally, 
though sometimes, like a young and fiery Arabian, you bolt 
the track. But, the present opportunity for a lesson must 
not be foregone. I hope that you will never again repeat 
this cruelty to this unhappy woman. She has shown you 
always, as well in the day of her pride as in that of her 
shame, that she does not sympathize with your affections. 
You yourself admit that, even were she to do so, you could 
never offer yourself to her in marriage. She has in no way 
given you to believe that she needs your services either as 
man or lawyer. We know that, though in moderate cir- 
cumstances, she needs no succor in money. Now, on what 
pretence of reason would you seek to see her ? What pre- 


BEAUCHaMPE. 


4 >2 

text of humanity, or law, of manhood, or sympathy of any 
sort, can be urged for your thrusting yourself upon a per- 
son who distinc .ly shows you that she desires no commu- 
nion with you. I repeat, she does not scorn or hate you, 
William, but the meeting with you must necessarily be pain- 
ful to her. Why should you inflict this pain ?” 

“ No more, sir, please say no more. I will not err in 
this manner again.” 

The young man spoke with a choking effort, and his head 
hung down, and a great drop fell from his eyes. 

“ Impulse, by a law of nature, is necessarily a selfishness. 
Our duty, for this reason is to curb it. Impulse rarely al- 
"ows us to recognise the rights of others, their situation or 
their sensibilities. It is humanity only, that requires that 
we should set reason on perpetual watch, as a good house- 
dog, to see that this outlaw, impulse, does not break down 
the door, and break into the close, to the terror, if not the 
destruction, of the trembling flock within.” 

“ Enough on this head, sir. 1 will not err again.” 

“ Another, my son, of quite as much importance to your- 
self and of even more importance to others. You have 
chosen a profession. A profession, once chosen, consti- 
tutes a pledge to the Deity for the proper working out of 
your human purposes, and the exercise of your peculiar 
gifts. Passions, and fancies, and desires, which keep us 
away from our duties — which make us work sluggishly at 
them, and without proper sympathy and energy, are in- 
dulged sinfully. You must fight against them, Willie. 
You must not only give up the pursuit of Margaret Cooper 
— as I know you will — but you must give up the very 
thought of her.” 

“ How is that possible ?” 

“ It is possible. It must be done. You have but to re- 
solve, Willie ; and be equally resolved upon the law ! You 
must give up Eros, and all the tributary muses of that god. 


PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 


4 € 


They still too much employ your thought. Look at what 1 
copied last night from the fly leaf of your docket.” 

The senior produced a sheet of paper, and in somewhat 
lackadaisacal accents, read the following verses : — 

SING NOT OF FAME. 

I. 

“ Sing not of Fame ! There was a time 
Such song had suited well mine ear, 

When passion had sought, perchance through crime, 

Ambition’s laurelled pomps to wear ; 

The wild desire, th’ impetuous thirst, 

The wing to soar, the will to sway, 

Had led me on, through fields accurst, 

On all life’s precious things to prey. 

Sing not of Fame. 

ii. 

** Oh ! rather sing of lonely hours, 

And sleepless nights and mournful sighs, 

When on his couch of blasted flowers, 

Despair looks up with loathing eyes ; 

In vain, with visions straining far, 

Hope seeks dear shape and baffled dream ; 

And wandering on, from star to star, 

Finds mockery in each golden gleam. 

Sing not of fame !” 

“ Now, Willie, these are what the newspapers wou 1 1 caii 
very good verses ; nay, there are some moralists, even in 
the pulpit, who, regarding the one proposition only, which 
rebukes ambition, would hold them to contain very proper 
sentiments. Yet they are all wrong.” 

“ Oh ! sir, waste no more words upon such a theme. It 
is a poor trifle. I did not mean that you should see it. 
Give it me, sir, or tear it up if you please.” 

“ Nay, nay, I will do neither, Willie. They will better 
represent my sentiment than yours. It is for him whose 
own struggles of ambition have resulted in vanities, tc de- 
clare ambition itself a vanity ; but if it be such, it is ore 
which is at once natural and of the best uscc to humanity 
Were it not for ambition, ours would be a brute world 


44 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


merely. There would be little in life, worth more than a 
good grazing patch to a hungry buffalo. It is ambition that 
puts in exercise all the agencies of art and civilization. It 
is ambition that sires all public virtues. I do not now 
mean that poor drivelling vanity, which foolish people call 
ambition, but that glorious builder and destroyer, who makes 
great empires, and achieves great results, and wrestles and 
toils for the victory, and is never so well satisfied as in the 
toil and the conflict, without one moment considering the 
results to self. Its presence implies strength for achieve- 
ment, courage to dare new paths, enthusiasm to sustain 
against defeat, power to conceive and create agencies, and 
art to work out all the processes of great and bold and 
novel performance. This is my notion of ambition, and the 
fame which follows, or should follow sucli performances, is 
a legitimate object of human desire — but only where the 
endowment really exists.” 

“ Ah, sir, this brings me to my particular trouble, and, 
no doubt, justifies the sentiment of my ballad. What if 1 
really lack the endowments which, alone, have the right to 
crave the laurel ? It is your affectionate interest, alone, I 
fear, which holds them to be in my possession.” 

“ Not so, my son. I have no doubts of your possessions 
— nay, have little of the use which you are destined to 
make of them. I know, too, that your song is but the fruit 
of a temporary despondency — the voice of a momentary 
mood, in which the sensitive nature rather rests herself 
than desponds. We are all more or less liable to these fits 
of despondency, and they have their uses. They fling the 
mind back upon the heart, and contribute to check its fro- 
ward tendencies. They counsel due caution and humility 
to progress. They teach modesty to conquest. I do not. 
vear them in your case, though I counsel you against too 
great indulgence of them. You would feel them even if 
you had never been denied by Margaret Cooper. They are 
signs, in fact, of the ambitidits hrtliifd which thus deplores 


Philosophies of age and youth* 46 

its own slow progress. Bat too much encouraged — and 
they have their beguiling attractions to a nature such as 
yours — they are apt to enfeeble. They encourage revery, 
which is always a dangerous pleasure, as it induces inac- 
tion. In our world, the d nnands of society require sleep- 
less activity and vigilance. If we pause too long for rest 
— if we too much dream — we wake to find some other per- 
son in possession of our conquests. You are now with 
hand upon the plough, and there must be no misgiving- 
no hesitation. To-morrow, as Milton hath it — ‘ to fresh 
fields and pastures new.’ And you will feel this new im- 
pulse to-morrow. You will forget your disappointment of 
heart — I should say fancy rather — in fresh motives to 
struggle. You will one day wonder, indeed, that Margare 4 
Cooper should have been so dear to you.” 

u Never ! never !” 

“ Ay, but you will, and forget her beauties and charms, 
her bold talent and commanding nature, in still superior 
attractions.” 

The youth shook his head with mournful denial. 

“ So will it be, Willie. That the boy should love at sev- 
enteen or eighteen — that he should insist upon loving at 
that period — nay, fancy the charms which inspire passion 
—is his absolute necessity. But the passion of this period 
is still but a boy passion only. His heart will rarely be 
touched by it. I would not have your passion absorbed by 
your ambition. I would only use the one passion to restrain 
and regulate the choice of the other. Ho you suppose that 
God has made us so inflexible that but one woman in all the 
world should satisfy the longings of the heart ? If so, and 
ycu never should meet with this one woman ? Besides, do 
you not see how perfectly childish it is to suppose, at twenty 

five when youth is all vigor; when every muscle is a 

conscious power ; when the heart and head are full of pow- 
ers ; all demanding exercise; when the fancy is on per- 
petual wing ; when the imagination daily communes with 


46 


BEAtfCHAMPfi. 


some ideal, bringing out the wing into the sunshine — how 
childish then to fancy that life can be without purposes, and 
hope no longer a thing of aim, filled with generous desires ! 
Your ballad, as I have said, declares only for a temporary 
mood which another day will dissipate. You have only 
read too much of Byron. This mood was his role. It was 
at once true and false. True, as it illustrated a temporary 
mood ; false, as it insisted upon this mood as a fatality ; ma- 
king that a life, which was only a passing cloud over the 
face of life.” 

The subject had led the old man on much farther than 
he had designed. The youth submitted patiently to his 
ancient teacher. It was thus that his youth had been les- 
coned : thus that his heart and fancy had been trained ; so 
that, with all his seeming impulse and despondency, his 
aims were really more in harmony with his powers, than is 
usually the case with most young men. 

We have dwelt longer upon this sort of teaching than 
is necessary to our story — as a story. But we have had 
our object in our desire for the proper characterization of 
both parties. The novel only answers half its uses when 
we confine it to the simple delineation of events, however 
ingenious and interesting. 

There was a brief pause in the dialogue, when the elder, 
without leaving the subject of conversation* presented it to 
his young companion’s mood through another medium, 
lie had his objects, we may say, in thus familiarizing the 
mind of the youth with the annoying topic. Could he trans- 
fer the case from the courts of the affections to those of the 
brain — we do not mean to say, from the lower to the upper 
courts — he felt that he should work very considerably 
toward the relief of moods which were a little too much in- 
dulged in for propriety, and, perhaps, safety. 

“ It is somewhat surprising, William, that Margaret 
Cooper never once detec ed your sympathies with poetry, 
and your own occasional wooings of the muse. Had she 


PHILOSOPHIES OP AGE AND YOUTH. 17 

done so, it would, I think, have greatly helped your woo* 
ings of herself. Did you ever show her any of your verses ?” 

“ Never, sir.” 

“ And you never once, I suspect, betrayed any desire to 
see her verses ?” 

“ Never, sir ! I thought only of her” 

“ Had you been a worldling, William, with a better 
knowledge of human nature, and ivoman nature, you might 
have been more successful. Alfred Stevens knew better. 
He simply held the mirror before the eyes of her vanity. 
He showed her her own portrait even as she desired to see_ 
it — as she was accustomed to see it. He pleased her with 
herself. He confirmed her notions of herself. He gave 
his sympathies to her ambition, and never troubled himself 
about her affections, which he soon discovered were prop- 
erly approachable only through her ambition. The great 
secret of conquest over such persons is to become a neces- 
sary minister to their most passionate desires. The devil 
worked thus cunningly with Eve. He works, in this very 
wise, with all our passions. You might have succeeded as 
Stevens did, had you been a student of humanity — had you 
been capable of the painful study of its weaknesses, and 
willing to descend to the mean occupation of stimulating 
them into excesses. This poor girl lived only in her am- 
bition. Her affections were all bonded to her brain. This 
made her bold — made her confident of strength. She did 
not fear her affections — she did not crave sympathy for 
them. She could only do so, after her fall from place and 
purity. Had your sympathies been given to her intellect, 
and had you shown her your capacity to sympathize fully 
with, and appreciate the objects of her own desire, you 
could have won all the affections that she wis able to be- 
stow. You would be mere successful in pursuit now.” 

“ But you can not think, sir, that I have now any pur 
pose — any wish ” 


48 


BtfAfrCHAMt’E. 


“ No ! that is impossible now, I know. Your own pride* 
your own ambition, if nothing else, would preserve you from 
any such desire. I am speaking, now, only of the natural 
change in her, such as her changed condition necessarily 
works. In her fall, her mind became humanized. Her 
heart is even purer, and truer now, in its shame— has more 
vitality, more sensibility, more delicacy, more sympathy 
with the really true and good — than she had when her name 
was without spot. Margaret Cooper did not fall through 
vicious inclinations, but a wilful pride. I regard her as 
far more really virtuous, now — as now conscious of the 
value of virtuous sympathies — conscious, in other words, 
of a heart-development — than she w T as in the day of her 
insolent pride, when her vanity stood unrebuked by any 
consciousness of lapse or weakness. The humility which 
follows shame is one of the handmaids employed to conduct 
to virtue.” 

And thus, resting upon the hill-side, and looking down 
upon that ruined hamlet, age and youth discoursed of the 
past, as if life had no future. But the future hath its germ 
in the past, and the present is a central point of survey, 
from which the wise may behold both oceans. We shall see, 
in our progress, what was the result of this serious dis- 
course, which places in our hands certain of the clues to the 
tale which follows — which sounds the preluding notes, and 
prepares us, in some degree, for the social tragedy which 
the rude chronicle of the border-historian has yielded to 
the purposes of art. 

The sun was rapidly passing down the slope of heaven. 
The valley of Charlemont began to look colder and darker 
in the eyes of our two companions. They had turned aside 
from their appointed road to take a last look, and a final 
farewell of the old ■r emembered places. This done, they 
prepared to depart. In another hour they were slowly 
riding through tne paths of the foreet, directing their course 
for the c welling of Edward H'ukbvy s o f William , 


PHILOSOPHIES OF AGE AND YOUTH. 40 

who was now a thriving young farmer, in a beautiful tract 
of country, some twelve miles farther on. While they sat 
at his cheerful fireside that night, they discoursed of every- 
thing but their mournful visit, and the encounter that day 
with Margaret Cooper. Her name was not once mentioned 
in William’s presence. Ned’s fiddle enlivened the family 
circle after supper, and while the buoyant young man 
played for his sombre cousin, and the more ancient guest, 
the thought of William wandered off* to the unknown dwel- 
ling of Margaret. 

Where was she then ? How employed ? With what 
hopes, in what condition ? 

Could he have seen her brooding that night over the meet- 
ing of that day ! Could he have heard her mournful exclama- 
tions of self-reproach — -seen with what dreary aspect, she 
mused on the terrible words: “ Too late — too late!” his 
sympathies would have made him forgetful of all the coun- 
sels of his venerable friend. As it was, he heard but little 
of his cousin’s violin. The gay sounds were lost upon hia 
senses. His revery depicted still mournfully enough 
though inadequately, the condition of the unhappy woman, 
isolated by her own intellect as by her aefeat and shame. 
There she sat, in her own lcnely chamber, with but one 
companion — the muse— brooding over her fate until the 
gloomy thought took the form of verse — the only process 
left her by which to relieve the over-burdened brain. We 
shall assert a privilege denied to William, and look over 
her as she writes. Her verses, singularly masculine as 
well as mournful, will constitute a sufficient and appro- 
priate prelude, to the sequel of her unhappy story. 

“ ’Tis meet that self-abandoned I should be, 

Whom all things do abandon ! Where is Death ? 

I call upon the rocks and on the sea : 

The rocks subside — the waters backward flee -*• 

The storm degenerates to the zephyr’s breathy 
And even the vapors of the swamp defay 

& 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


Their poison ! It is rain that I would die ! 

Earth hath not left one charity for me ! 

Fate takes no shape to fright me — none to save, 

Or stifle, and I live as in a grave 
Where only death is wanting. 

Oh ! the gall, 

And bitter of a life where this is all ! 

Where one can neither drink, nor dream, nor choke. 
And freedom’s self is but a bond and yoke, 

And breath and sight denial ! 

Why the light, 

When the life’s hope is sightless ? Why the bloom. 
When naught of flavor’s left upon the taste ? 

Why beauty, when the earth refuses sight, 

Leaving all goodliest things to go to waste ? — 

And why not Death when Life’s itself a tomb !” 


LAW IN DESHABILLE. 


51 


CHAPTER IV. 

LAW IN DESHABILLE. 

u Fun is your true philosophy : the laugh 
Still speaks the winning wisdom.” 

With change of scene, we change the nature of the ac- 
tion. Life shows us hourly all the rapid transitions of the 
kaleidoscope : now wo share the bright, now the dark ; 
now the scintillating gleams of a thousand tiny sparklers, 
in wreaths, and roses, stars, and beautiful twinings, that 
seem as endless in variety of form as color — and anon the 
cold formality of cross and square, and the solemn signifi- 
cance of the perpetual circle, which leaves the eye no 
salient beauty upon which to rest. The youth weeps to- 
day, with a grief that seems altogether too hard to bear ; 
and lie laughs to-morrow with a joy that seems as wild, 
and capricious, and as full of levity and hum, as the 
life in the little body of a humming-bird. And so, we pass, 
% er saltern, from gay to grave, from lively to severe, and if 
reason be the question, in either change, with quite as lit- 
tle justification in any ! We are creatures of a caprice 
which might be held monstrously immoral and improper, 
were it not that caprice is just as essential to the elasticity 
and tone of humanity, as it is to the birds and breezes. 

But, whatever, the changing phase of the mood and the 
moment, the motif of the performance is the same. We 
get back, all of us, to the old places in our circle. We set 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


fyO 

oar figures in our drama, and they laugh or weep, droop 
or dance, are sad or merry, as the case may be ; but never 
materially, or for any length of time, to baffle the fates, 
which are just as arbitrary in the world of art, as in that of 
humanity. If therefore, we, who have so recently been 
dwelling on very gloomy topics — presenting only dark and 
sombre, and even savage aspects to the mirror — now show 
ourselves in quite other characters and costume, this is no 
fault in us, nor does it conflict with the absolute law in our 
progress. That is written, as indelibly as were the laws 
of Mede and Persian, and the decrees of court undergo no 
fluctuation, though there may be a burst of mistimed mer- 
riment during the course of the trial. The change of scene 
will make a difference — change of costume, and the intro- 
duction of new characters. Besides, as we have already 
gravely taught, the moods of mind have no permanent in- 
fluence, or but very little, on the real nature, the true char- 
acter of the subject* which has its own atmosphere, and 
tends inevitably to decreed results, which, to be legitimate, 
must be systematic throughout, and arbitrary in all their 
workings. We can not help it, if, while the mournful pro- 
cession is in progress to the grave, and the bolt strikes 
down the noble, and the gloomy pall hides the bright and 
beautiful from loving eyes — if fools laugh the while, and 
the cold, the base, the cruel, pursue each their several lit- 
tle, sneaking, scoundrelly purposes, working against the 
sweetest humanities of life and culture ! 

With this caveat against any mistakes of assumption, we 
raise the curtain upon other scenes and characters. 

The city of Frankfort, in the noble state of Kentucky, 
is very beautifully situated upon the banks of the river of 
that name. It is overlooked by a cluster of steep hills, but 
occupies an elevation of its own, at a point where the rivei 
curves gracefully before it, in a crescent figure. The city 
itself, of moderate dimensions at the period of which wo 
wntO| is a capital \ handsomely builtj laid .out in rectangu- 


58 


Law in deshabille. 

lar sections, and presenting, altogether, a view at once 
pleasing and promising* scanned from any of the nurner 
ous eminences which look down upon it. A place, now, of 
considerable opulence, and tolerably large population, it 
was even then distinguished by its numerous men of talent 
and people of fashion. Of the former, at this and suose- 
quent periods, it has furnished to the Union abundant 
proofs ; of the latter, the charm will be remembered with 
freshening interest, by all who have ever enjoyed the grace 
and hospitality of its society. 

Upon the resources of this young and promising capital, 
however, it is not our purpose to dwell. We are permitted 
to glance at its circles only, and to detach, from the great 
body of the community, a few only of its members, and such 
of its haunts only as can but imperfectly illustrate its vir- 
tues. We proceed to introduce them. 

The reader will please suppose himself for the tipic, 
within one of those dark, obscure tabernacles — sanctuaries 
dare we call them? — which, in the silent, narrow streets 
and portions of a city which are usually most secluded from 
the uproarious clamors of trade, have been commonly as- 
signed to, or rather .chosen by, the professors of the law, 
in which to carry on their mysteries in appropriate places 
of concealment. Like the huge spiders to which the satirist 
has so frequently likened them, these grave gentlemen 
have always exhibited a most decided preference for retreats 
in dismal and dusty corners. They seem to find a moral 
likeness for the craft in the antique, the obscure, and the 
intricate ; and with a natural propriety ! They seem to 
shrink, with a peculiar modesty, from the externally attrac- 
tive, the open, the transparent, and the graceful ; as calcu- 
lated to attract too curious eyes, if not admiration ; and 
whether it is that their veneration for the profession de- 
mands the nicest preservation of the antiquities which it so 
loves to enshrine and cherish, even after their uses have 
utterly departed, or whether it is that the wisdom which 


64 


kSAtfCHAMPE. 


they practise, is of the owl-like sort which will tolerate no 
excess of light, it is very certain that you will find them 
always in the most dingy and out-of-the-way dwellings, 
in the most dismal and obscure lanes and crannies of a 
city. The moral usually determines the externals. It 
would seem, among most of the practitioners whom it is my 
fortune to know, that anything like a conspicuous situation, 
and neat, well-fitted, and cleanlily-painted rooms, would 
incur the reproach of professional dandyism. These might 
argue, perhaps, against the profundity, the gravity, the dig- 
nity, the obscurity, of the sage professor. They might break 
the effect of that Burleigh nod which means so much, and 
is of such prodigious emphasis, so long as the shaker of the 
head shows nothing else, and keeps as dumb as dark ! 
Such is the prescriptive necessity of these externals, that 
you will rarely happen upon the young student who will 
readily fall into the levities of clean lodging, decent exte- 
rior, and a modern-looking set of chambers. 

The office to which we now repair, is one which evidently 
belongs to a veteran ; one, at least, who knows what are 
the excellent effects upon the vulgar superstition, of the 
rust and dust of antiquity. If ever dirt and dismals could 
make any one spot more sacred than another, in the eyes 
of a grave and learned lawyer — who understands the full 
value of mere externals, and of authority upon the vulgar 
mind — this was the place. Here ^dullness was sainted; 
obscurity jealously insured and protected ; dust consecrated 
to sacred uses and respect ; and law preserved in maxims 
which it would be worse than heresy to question. Here, 
darkness and doubt were honored things ; and mere accu- 
mulation grew into a divinity, whose chaotic treasures no 
one ever dreamed to distrust. Authority, here, wielding 
her massy tomes, as Hercules his club, craved no succor 
from digestion ; knocking reason over with the butt of the 
pistol, according to Johnson, when failing to do execution 
from the muzzle. One breathed an atmosphere of dust at 


Law in deshabille. 55 

the mere sight of these chambers : the dusty desks, dirty 
books, grimy walls ; all inspiring solemn thoughts of the 
tombs of Egypt and the Assyrian, merely to behold them. 
The two small apartments, such as a lawyer would regard 
as snug, were dimly lighted by a single window in each, 
and these looked out upon a dismal and crowded little court. 
The panes of the two windows, wretchedly small as they 
were, had, evidently, never once, since fashioned in their 
frames, been opened, or subjected to the impertinent agency 
of soap and water. The sun grew jaundiced as he looked 
through the sombre glasses. Shelves of cumbrous volumes, 
all of that uniform vulgar complexion which distinguishes 
the books of a lawyer’s office — a uniform as natural as 
drab to the quaker, white neckwrappers to the priest, and 
black to the devil — increased the lugubrious aspect of the 
apartments. Plaster casts of Coke and Bacon, and suir- 
dry other favorite authorities, stood over the book-cases, 
smeared with soot, and fettered with the cobwebs of three 
lives, or, possibly, as many generations. The rooms had 
little other furniture of any sort, except the huge table 
covered witli baize, now black, which had once been green, 
and which also bore its century of dingy volumes. Rigid 
cases of painted pine occupied the niches on each side of 
the chimney, divided into numerous sections, each filled 
with its portly bundles of closely-written papers : — 

“ Strange words, scrawled with a barbarous pen.” 

In short, the picture was that of a law-office, the proprietor 
of which was in very active and successful practice. 

But the gravity which distinguished the solemn fixtures, 
and the silent volumes, did not extend to the human inmates 
of this dim lodging-house of law. Two of these sat by the 
table in the centre of the room. Their feet were upon it 
at opposite quarters, while their chairs were thrown back 
and balanced upon their hind legs, at such an angle as gave 
most freedom and ease of position to the person 


56 


Beauchamps. 


Something of merriment had inspired them, for the room 
was full of cachination from their rival voices, long before 
our entrance. Of the topics of which they spoke, the 
reader must form his own conjectures. They may have a 
significance hereafter, of which we have no present intima- 
tion. It may be well to state, however, that it is our pres- 
ent impression that we have somewhere met both of these 
persons on some previous occasion. We certainly reinerm 
ber that tall, slender form, that sly, smiling visage, and 
those huge bushy whiskers. That chuckling laugh enters 
into our ears like a well-remembered sound ; and, as for 
* the companion of him from whom it proceeds, we can not 
mistake. Every word and look is familiar. It is five 
years gone, indeed, but the impression was too strongly 
impressed to be so easily obliterated. 

Our companions continued merry. The conversation was 
still disjointed — just enough being said to renew the laugh- 
ter of both parties. As, for example : — 

44 Such an initiation !” said one. 

44 Ha ! ha ! ha !” roared the other, at the bare suggestion. 

44 And did you mark the uses made of old Darby, 
War ham ?” 

44 No : I missed him before eleven. Did he not escape ? 
Where was he ?” 

44 Quiet as a mouse, unconscious as a pillow, under the 
feet of Barnabas. Barnabas used him as a sort of foot- 
stool. First one foot, then another, came down upon his 
>reast ; and you know the measure of Barnabas’ legs. 
Ha! ha! ha!” 

44 Ha! ha! ha!” 

44 Hundred-pounders each, by Jupiter. Whenever they 
came down you could hear the squelch. Poor Darby did 
not seem to breathe at any other time, and the air was 
driven out of him with a gush. Ha! ha! ha! It was 
decidedly the demdest fine initiation I ever saw at the 
club.” 


LAW IN DESHABILLE. 


57 


“But Beauchampe !” 

“ Ah ! that was a dangerous experiment. He can’t stand 
the stuff.” 

“ No, Ben, and that’s not all. It will not do to put it in 
him, or there will be no standing him. What passions! 
Egad, I trembled every moment lest he should draw knife 
upon the pope. He’s more a madman when drunk than 
any man I ever saw.” 

“ He’s no gain to the club. He has no idea of joking. 
He’s too serious.” 

“Yet what a joke it was, when he took the pope by his 
nose, in order to show how a cork could be pulled without 
either handkerchief or corkscrew.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! I thought he’d have wrung it off.” 

“ That was the pope’s fear also : but he was too much 
afraid of provoking the madman to do worse, to make the 
slightest complaint, and he smiled too, with a desperate 
effort, while the water was trickling from his eyes.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha !” and the chuckling was renewed, until 
the sound of footsteps in the front room induced their 
return to sobriety. 

“ Who’s there ?” demanded one of the merry com- 
panions. 

“ Me ! — the pope,” answered the voice of the intruder. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha !” was the simultaneous effusion of the 
two, concluded, however, with an invitation to the other to 
come in. 

“ Come in, pope, come in.” 

A short, squab, but active little man, whose eyes snapped 
continually, and whose proboscis was of that truculent 
complexion and shape which invariably impresses you with 
the idea of an experienced bottle-holder, at once made his 
appearance. 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha ! Your reverence, how does your dignity 
feci this morning — your nose, I mean ?” 

a* 


58 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ Don’t talk of it, Warham, I was never so insulted in 
all my life.” 

“ Insulted ! How ? By wliat ?” 

“ By what ! why, by that d d fellow pulling my nose.” 

“ Indeed, why that was universally esteemed a compli- 
ment, and it was supposed by every one to give you pleas- 
ure, for you smiled upon him in the most gracious manner, 
while he was most stoutly tugging at it.” 

“ So I did, by the ghost of Naso, but reason good was 
there why I should ? The fellow was mad — stark mad.” 

“ Oh, I don’t think he would have done you any harm.” 

u Indeed, eh ! don’t you. By the powers, and if you 
have your doubts on that point, get your nasal eminence 
betwixt his thumb and finger, as mine was, and you will 
be ready enough to change your notion, before the next 
sitting of the Symposia. D — n it, I have no feeling in the 
region. It’s as perfectly dead to me ever since, as if it 
were frozen.” 

“ It certainly does wear a very livid appearance, eh, 
Ben ?” remarked the other, gravely. 

“ Do you think so ?” responded the visiter, with some 
signs of disquiet. 

“ Indeed, I do think so. Will you pass Dr. Filbert’s this 
morning? if so, take his opinion.” 

“ I will make it a point to do so. I will.” 

“ It’s prudent only. I have heard of several disastrous 
eases of the loss of the nose. Perhaps there is no feature 
which is so obnoxious to injury. The most fatal symptom 
is an obtuseness — a sort of numbness — a deficiency of 
sensibility.” 

“ My very symptom.” 

“ Amputation has been frequently resorted to, but not 
always in season to prevent the spread of mortification.” 

“ The devil, you say — amputation !” 

“ Yes, but this is a small matter.” 

What! to lose one’s nose — and such a nose !” 


LAW IK DESttABTLLKi 


5 $ 

u Yes, a small matter. Such is the progress of art that 
noses of any dimensions are now supplied to answer all 
purposes.” 

“ Is this true, Warliam ? But dang it, even if it wc^ 
there’s no compensating a man for the loss of his own. No 
nose could be made to answer my purposes half so well as 
the one I was born with.” 

“But you do not suppose that you were born with that 
nose.” 

“ Why not?” 

“ You were born of the flesh. But that nose is decidedly 
more full of the spirit.” 

“ That’s an imputation. But I can tell you that a man’s 
nose may become very red, yet he be very temperate.” 

“ Granted. But temperance, according to the club, im- 
plies anything but abstinence. Besides, you were made 
perpetual pope only while your nose lasted, and color, size, 
and the irregular prominences by which yours is so thickly 
studded, were the causes of your selection. The loss of 
your nose itself would not be your only loss. You would 
be required to abdicate.” 

“But you are not serious, Warham, about the suscepti- 
bility of the nose to injury.” 

“ Ask Ben !” 

“ It’s a dem’d dangerous symptom, you have, your rev- 
erence.” 

“ Coldness — at once a sign of disease, though latent per- 
haps, and of inferior capacity, for it is the distinguishing 
trait of cat and dog.” 

“ And the dem’d numbness.” 

“ Ay, the want of sensibility is a bad sign. Besides, 1 
think the pope’s nose has lost nearly all its color.” 

“ Except a dark crimson about the roots.” 

“ And the bridge is still passable .” 

“ Yes, but how long will it be so in the club ? That has 
grown pale also.” 


GO 


BEAUCttAMPJJ. 


“ To a degree, only, Ben : I don’t think it much faded.” 

“ Perhaps not ; and now I look again, it does seem to 
me that one of the smaller carbuncles on the main promi- 
nence keeps up appearances.” 

“ Look you, lads, d — n it, you’re quizzing me !” was the 
sudden interruption of the person whose nose furnished the 
subject of discussion, but his face wore a very bewildered 
expression, and he evidently only had a latent idea of the 
waggery of which he was the victim. 

“ Quizzing !” exclaimed one of the companions. 

' Quizzing !” echoed the other. “ Never was more dem’d 
serious in all my life !” and he stroked his black, bushy 
whiskers in a very conclusive manner. The visiter applied 
his fingers to the nasal prominence which had become so 
fruitful a source of discussion, and passed them over its 
various outline with the tenderness of a man who handles a 
subject of great intrinsic delicacy. 

“ It feels pretty much as ever !” said he, drawing a long 
breath. 

“ Ay, to your fingers. But what is its own feeling ? Try 
now and snuff the air.” 

The ambiguous member was put into instant exercise, and 
such a snuffing and snorting as followed, utterly drowned 
the sly chuckling in which the jeering companions occasion- 
ally indulged. They played the game, however, with mar- 
vellous command of visage. 

“ I can snuff — I can draw in, and drive out the air!” 
exclaimed the pope, with the look of a man somewhat hot- 
ter satisfied. 

“ Ay, but do you feel it cut — is it sharp — does the air 
seem to scrape against and burn, as it were, the nice, deli- 
cate nerves of that region.” 

“ I can’t say that it does.” 

“ Ah ! that’s bad. Look you, Ben. There’s a paper of 
snuff, yellow snuff, on the mantelpiece in t’other room. 
Bring it — let the pope try that.” 


LAW IN DESHABILLE. 6l 

The other disappeared, and returned, bringing with him 
one of those paper rolls which usually contain Sanford's 
preparation of bark. Nor did the appearance belie the 
contents. The yellow powder was bark. 

“ Now, pope, try that ! The test is infallible, that is the 
strongest Scotch snuff, and if that don’t succeed in titilla- 
ting your nostrils, run to Filbert with all possible despatch . 
He may have to operate !” 

The pope’s hand was seen to tremble, as a portion of the 
powder described as so very potent, was poured into it by 
the confederate. He put it to his nose, and, in his haste 
and anxiety, fairly buried his suspected member in the 
powder. His cheeks shared freely in the bounty, and his 
mouth formed a better idea of the qualities of the “ snuff,” 
than ever could his proboscis. The application over, the 
patient prepared himself to sneeze, by clapping o :e hand 
upon the pit of his stomach, opening his mouth, and care 
fully thrusting his head forward and his nose upward. 

“ Oh ! you’re trying to sneeze !” said one of tho two. 
“ You shouldn’t force the matter.” 

“ No, I don’t. But is the snuff so very strong ?” 

“ The demdest strongest Scotch that I ever nosed yet.” 

“ I can’t sneeze !” said the pope, in accents of conster- 
nation. 

His companions shook their heads dolefully. He looked 
from one to the other as if not knowing what to do. 

“ A serious matter,” said one. 

“ Dem’d serious! There’s no telling, Warham, what 
sort of a looking person the pope would be without his 
nose.” 

“ Difficult, indeed, to imagine. A valley for a mountain ! 
It’s as if we went to bed to-night with the town at the foot 
of the hills, and rose to-morrow to find it on the top of them. 
There’s nothing more important to a man’s face than his 
nose. Appearances absolutely demand it. The uses of a 
pose, indeed, are really less important than its presence.” 


62 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ I can’t agree with you there, Warham ; a sneeze — 99 

“ Is a joy, Ben — a luxury ; but a nose is a necessity, 
What show could a man make without a nose ?” 

“ Rather what a show he would make of himself without 
it ! A monstrous show !” 

“ You’re right. Besides, the pope’s loss would be great- 
er than that of most ordinary men.” 

u Much, much ? Let us take the dimensions, pope. 
Three inches from base to apex — from root to the same 
point — ” 

“Four at least — the dromedary’s hump alone calls U : 
two.” 

And m the spirit of unmeasured fun, the person who is 
called Ben by his companion, arming himself with a string, 
was actually about to subject the proboscis of the pope to 
-ule and line, when the eyes of the latter, which had really 
exhibited some consternation before, were suddenly illumi- 
nated. He caught up the paper of supposed snulf which 
Een had incautiously laid down upon the table and read the 
label upon it. 

“ Ah ! villains !” he exclaimed, “ at your old tricks. I 
should have known it. But I’ll pay you,” and starting up 
he proceeded to fling the yellow powder over the merry- 
makers. This led to a general scramble, over chairs and 
tables from one room to another. The office rang with 
shouts and laughter — the cries of confusion and exultation, 
and the tumbling of furniture. The atmosphere was filled 
with the floating particles of the medicine, and while the 
commotion was at its height, the party were joined unex- 
pectedly by a fourth person who suddenly made his appear- 
ance from the street. 

“ Ida, Beauehampe ! that you ? You are come in time. 
Grapple the pope there from behind, or he will suffocate us 
with Jesuit’s bark.” 

“And a proper fate for such Jesuits as ye are,” exclaimed 
the pope, who, however, ceased the horse-play the moment 


LAW IN DESHABILLE. 


63 


that the name of the new-comer was mentioned. lie turned 
round and confronted hina as he spoke, with a countenance 
in which dislike and apprehension were singularly mingled 
and very clearly expressed. 

“ Mr. Lowe, I am very glad to see you here,” said Beau 
cliampe respectfully but modestly ; “ it saves me the ncces- 
sity of calling upon you.” 

“ Calling upon me, sir ? For what ?” 

“ To apologize for my rudeness to you last night. I was 
not conscious of it, but some friends this morning tell me 
that I was rude.” 

“ That you were, sir ! You pulled my nose ! you did !” 

“ I am sorry for it.” 

“ No man’s nose should be pulled, Mr. Beauchampe, with- 
out an object. If you had pulled my nose with an inten- 
tion, it might have been excused ; but, to pull it without 
design, is, it appears to me, decidedly inexcusable.” 

“ Decidedly, decidedly !” was the united exclamation of 
the two friends. 

“ I am very sorry, indeed, Mr. Lowe. It was, sir, a very 
unwarrantable liberty, if I did such a thing, and I know 
not how to excuse it.” 

“It Jg not to be excused,” said the pope, or Lowe, which 
was his proper name, whose indignation seemed to increase 
in due proportion with the meekness and humility of the 
young man. 

“ A nose,” he continued, “ a nose is a thing perhaps quite 
as sacred as any other in a man’s possession.” 

“ Quite !” said the jesters with one breath. 

“ No man, as I have said before, should pull the nose of 
another, unless he had some distinct purpose in view. Now, 
sir, had you any such purpose ?” 

“ Not that I can now recollect.” 

“ Let me assist you, Beauchampe. You had a purpose. 
You declared it at the time. The purpose was even a be- 
nevolent one ; aay, something more than benevolent. The 


64 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


corkscrew had been mislaid, and you undertook to show to 
the pope — remember, the presiding officer of the society — 
that a cork might be drawn without any other instrument 
than the ordinary thumb and forefinger of a free white man. 
You illustrated the principle on the pope’s proboscis, and 
so effectually, that everybody was convinced, not only that 
the cork might be drawn in this way from every bottle, but 
that the same mode would be equally effectual in drawing 
any nose from any face. If this was not a purpose, and a 
laudable one, then I am no judge of the matter.” 

“ But, Sharpe, my dear fellow,” said Lowe, “ you over- 
look the fact that Beauchampe has already admitted that 
he had no purpose.” 

“ Beauchampe is no witness in his own case, nor is it 
asked whether he has a purpose now, but whether he had 
one when the deed was done.” 

“ It was a drunken purpose then, colonel,” said Beau 
champe gravely 

“ Drunk or sober, it matters not,” said the other ; “ it 
was not less a purpose, and I say a good one. The act 
was one pro bono publico ; and I, moreover, contend that 
you did not pull the nose of our friend except in his official 
capacity. You pulled the nose, not of Daniel Lowe, Esq., 
but of the supreme pontiff of our microcosm ; and I really 
think that the pope does wrong to remember the event in 
his condition as a mere man. I am not sure that he does 
not violate that rule, seventeenth section, seventh clause, 
of the ‘ ordinance for the better preservation of the individ- 
uality of the fraternals,’ which provides that ‘ all persons, 
members, who shall betray the discoveries, new truths, and 
modern inventions, the progress of discovery and prosely- 
tism, the processes deemed essential to be employed,’ &c. 
You all remember the section, clause, and penalty.” 

u Pshaw ! how can you make out that I violate the clause ? 
What have I betrayed that should be secret?” 

“ The new mode of extracting a cork from a bottle, which 


LAiT IN DESHABILLE: ( ()/> 

our new member, Bettuchampe, displayed last evening, to 
the great edification of every fraternal present.” 

“ But it was no cork ! My nose—” 

“ Symbolically, it was a cork, and yotlr nose had no right 
to any resentments. But come, let us take the back room 
again and resume our seats, when we can discuss the matter 
more at leisure.” 

The motion was seconded, and the dusty particles of 
Jesuit’s bark having subsided from the atmosphere of the 
adjoining room, the parties drew chairs around the table 
as before, with a great appearance of comparative satis* 
faction. 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


K6 


CHAPTER y. 

STUMP TACTICS. 

u Our village politicians, how they plan 
Their pushpin practice — for the rights of man V* 

The name of Beauchampe, of which our readers have 
heard nothing until this period, though it confers its name 
on our story, renders it necessary that we should devote a 
few moments in particular to him by whom it is borne. lie 
was a young man, not more than twenty-one, tall, and of 
very handsome person. His eye was bright, and his whole 
face full of intelligence. His manners and features equal- 
ly denoted the modesty and the ingenuousness of youth. 
There was a gentleness in his deportment, however, which, 
though natural enough to his nature when in repose, was 
not its characteristic at other periods. He was of excita- 
ble constitution, passionate, and full of enthusiasm ; and, 
when aroused, not possessed of any powers of self-govern- 
ment or restraint. At present, and sitting with the rest 
about the table, his features were not only subdued and 
quiet, but they wore an air of profound humility and self- 
dissatisfaction, which was sufficiently evident to all. 

“ Our new member,” said one of the party, “ does not 
seem to have altogether got over the pains of initiation. 
Eh, Beauchampe ! how is it ? Does the head ache still ? 
Are the nerves still disordered?” 

“ No, colonel, but I feel inexpressibly mean and sheep- 
ish. I am very sorry you persuaded me to join your club.” 


STuMb tactics. 


61 

u Persuade ! it was not possible to avoid it. Every new 
graduate at the bar, to be recognised, must go through the 
initiation. Your regrets and repentance are treasonable.” 

“ I feel them nevertheless. I must have been a savage 
and a beast if what I am told be true. I never was drunk 
before in my life, and, club or no club, if I can help it. never 
will be drunk again. Indeed, I can not even now under- 
stand it. I drank no great deal of wine.” 

“ No, indeed, precious little — no more than would dash 
the brandy. You may thank Ben there for his adroitness 
in mingling the liquors.” 

“ I do thank him !” said the youth with increased gravi- 
ty, and a glance which effectually contradicted his words, 
addiessed to the offender. That worthy did not seem much 
annoyed, however. 

“ It was the demdest funny initiation I did ever see ! 
Ha ! ha ! ha ! I say, pope, how is your reverence’s nose ?” 

“ Let my nose alone, you grinning, big- whiskered, little 
creature !” 

“ Noses are sacred,” said Sharpe. 

u To be pulled only with a purpose, Warham.” 

“ Symbolically,” pursued the first. 

“ By way of showing how corks are to be drawn.” 

“ Oh, d — n you for a pair of blue devils !” exclaimed 
Lowe, starting to his feet, and shaking his fist at the 
offenders. 

“ What, are you off, pope ?” demanded Sharpe. 

“ Yes, I am. There’s no satisfaction in staying with 
you.” 

“ Call at Filbert’s on your way, be sure.” 

“ For what, I want to know ?” 

“ Why, for his professional opinion. The worst sign, 
you know, is that numbness — ” 

“ Coldness.” 

“ Insensibility to Scotch snuff.” 

“ And remember, though your nose was pulled officially, 


$8 BEAUCHAMPii. 

it may yet be personally injured. The official pulling sim- 
ply acquits the offender: the liability of the nose is not les- 
sened by the legalization of the act of pulling.” 

“ The devil take you for a pair of puppies,” cried the vic- 
tim with a queer expression of joint fun and vexation on 
his face. “ Of course, Mr. Beauchampe,” he said, turning 
to the young man, “ of course I don’t believe what these 
dogs say about my nose having suffered any vital injury ; 
but I must tell you, sir, that you hurt me very much last 
night; and I feel the pain this morning.” 

“ I am truly sorry, Mr. Lowe, for what I have done. 
Truly, sincerely sorry. I assure you, sir, that your pain of 
body is nothing to that which I suffer in mind from having 
exposed myself, as I fear I did.” 

••You did expose yourself and me too, sir. I trust you 
will never do so again. I advise you, sir, never do so 
again — never, unless you have a serious and sufficient mo- 
tive. Don’t let these fellows gull you with the idea that it 
was any justification for such an act that corks might be 
drawn from bottles in such a manner. Corks are not noses. 
Nobody can reasonably confound them. The shape, color, 
everything is different. There is nothing in the feel of the 
two to make one fancy a likeness. You are young, sir, and 
liable to be abused. Take the advice of an older man. 
Look into this matter for yourself, and you will agree with 
me not only that there is no likeness between a hose and a 
cork, but that, even admitting that your plan of drawing a 
cork from a bottle by the thumb and forefinger is a good 
one, it would be impossible to teach the process by exer- 
cising them upon a nose in the same manner. These young 
men are making fun of you, Mr. Beauchampe — they are, 
believe me !” 

“ Ha ! ha ! ha !” roared the offenders. “ Very good, 
your reverence.” 

“ He ! he ! he ! you puppies. Do you think I mind your 
cackling !” and shaking his fist at the company, Mr. Lowe 


STUMP TACTICS. 


69 


took Iris departure, involuntarily stroking, with increased 
affection the nasal eminence which had furnished occasion 
for so much misplaced merriment. 

“ Well, Beauchampe,” said one of the companions, “you 
still seem grave about this business, but you should not. 
If ever a man may forget himself and be mad for a night, 
after the fashion of old Anacreon, it is surely the night of 
that day when he is admitted to the temple — when he takes 
his degree, and passes into the brotherhood of the bar.” 

“ Nay, on such a day least of all.” 

“ Pshaw, you were never born for a puritan. Old Thurs- 
ton, your parson teacher, has perverted you from your bet- 
ter nature. You are a» fellow for fun and flash, high frolic, 
and the complete abandonment of blood. You look at this 
matter too seriously. Do I not tell you — I that have led 
you through all the thorny paths of legal knowledge — do I 
not tell you that your offence is venial. 4 A good sherris- 
sack hath a twofold operation in it.* ” 

“ Beauchampe found it fourfold,” said the bush-whiskered 
gentleman — “ that is, fourth proof ; and he showed proofs 
enough of it. By Gad ! never did a man play such pleas- 
ant deviltries with his neighbor’s members. The nose- 
pulling was only a small part of his operations. It was 
certainly a most lovely initiation.” 

“ At least it’s all over, Mr. Coalter ; and as matters have 
turned out, nothing more need be said on the subject ; but 
were it otherwise, I assure you that your practice upon my 
wine would be a dangerous experiment for you. I speak 
to you by way of warning, and not with the view to quarrel. 
I presume you meant nothing more than a jest ?” 

“ Dem the bit. more,” said the other, half dissatisfied 
with himself at the concession, yet more than half convinced 
of the propriety of making it. “ Dem the bit more. Sharpe 
will tell you that it’s a trick of the game — a customary 
trick — must be done by somebody, and was done by me, 
only because I like to see a dem’d fine initiation such qs 


70 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


yours was, my boy. But, good morning, Beauchampe — 
good morning, Sharpe — I see you have business to do — 
some dem’d political business, I suppose ; and so I leave 
you. I’m no politician, but I see that Judge Tompkins is 
in the field against your friend Desha. Eh ! don’t you 
think I can guess the rest, Warham — eh ?” 

“ Sagacious fellow !” said Sharpe as the other disap- 
peared ; “ and, in this particular, not far from the mark. 
Tompkins is in the field against Desha, and will run him a 
tight race. I too must go into the field, Beauchampe. The 
party requires it, and though I have some reasons not to 
wish it just at this time, yet the matter is scarcely avoida- 
ble. I shall want every assistance* and I shall expect you 
to take the stump for me.” 

“ Whatever I can do I will.” 

“ You can do much. You do not know your own abili- 
ties on the stump. You will do famous things yet ; and 
this is the time to try yourself. The success of a man in 
our country depends on the first figure. You are just ad- 
mitted ; something is expected of you. There can be no 
better opportunity to begin.” 

“ I am ready and willing.” 

“ Scarcely, mon ami. You are going to Simpson. You 
will get with sisters and mamma, and waste the daylight. 
Believe me this is no time to play at mammets. We want 
every man. We will need them all.” 

“ You shall find me ready. I shall not stay long at 
Simpson. But do not think that I will commit myself for 
Desha. I prefer Tompkins.” 

“ Well, but you will do nothing on that subject. You 
do not mean to come out for Tompkins ?” 

“ No ! I only tell you I will do nothing on the subject of 
the gubernatorial canvass. You are for the assembly. 1 
will turn out in your behalf. But who is your opponent ?” 

“ One Calvert — William Calvert. Said to be a smart 
follow. I never saw him, but he is spoken of as no mean. 


STUMP TACTICS. 


71 


person. He writes well. His letter to the people of 

lies on the desk there. Put it in your pocket and read it 
at your leisure. It is well done — quite artful — but rather 
prosing and puritanical.' ” 

Beauchampe took up the pamphlet, passed his eyes over 
the page, and placed it without remark in his pocket. 

“ Barnabas,” continued Sharpe, “ who has seen this fellow 
Calvert, says he’s not to be despised. He’s a mere country 
lawyer, however, who is not known out of his own precinct. 
In taking the field now, he makes a miscalculation. I shall 
beat him very decidedly. But he has friends at work, who 
arc able, and mine must not sleep. Do I understand you 
as promising to take the field against him ?” 

“ If he is so clever, he will need a stronger opponent. 
Why not do it yourself?” 

“ Surely, I will. I long for nothing better. But I can 
not be everywhere, and he and his friends are everywhere 
busy. I will seek him in his stronghold, and grapple with 
him tooth and nail ; but there will be auxiliary combatants, 
and you must be ready to take up the cudgel at the same 
time with some other antagonist. When do you leave 
town ?” 

“To-day — within the hour.” 

“ So soon ! Why I looked to have you to dinner. Mrs 
Sharpe expects you.” 

“ I am sorry to deprive myself of the pleasure of doing 
justice to her good things ; but I wrote my sisters and they 
will expect me.” 

“ Pshaw ! what of that ! The disappointment of a day 
only. You will be the more welcome from the delay.” 

“They will apprehend some misfortune — perhaps, my 
rejection — and I would spare them the mortification if no: 
the fear. You must make my compliments and excuse tc 
Mrs. S.” 

« You will be a boy, Beauchampe. Let the girls wait - 
day, and dine with me, You will rnee* some good fellovn 


72 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


and get a glimpse into tlie field of war — see how we open 
the campaign, and so forth.” 

“ Temptations, surely, not to be despised ; but I confess 
to my boyhood in one respect, and will prove my manhood 
in another. I am able to resist your temptations — so much 
for my manhood. My boyhood makes me keep word with 
my sisters,, and the shame be on my head.” 

“ Shame, indeed ; but where shall we meet ?” 

“At Bowling Green — when you please.” 

“ Enough then on that head. I will write you when you 
are wanted. I confess to a strong desire, apart from my 
own interests, to see you on the stump ; and if I pan ar- 
range it so, I will have you break ground against Calvert.” 

“ But that is not so easy. What is there against him ?” 

“ You will find out from his pamphlet. Nothing more 
easy. He is obscure, that is certain. Little known among 
the people. Why? For a good reason — he is a haughty 
aristocrat — % man who only knows them when he wants 
their votes !” 

“ Is that the case ?” 

“ Simple fellow ! we must make it appear so. It may 
be or not — what matter? That he is shy, and reserved, 
and unknown, is certain. It’s just as likely he is so, be- 
cause of his pride, as anything else. Perhaps he’s a fellow 
of delicate feelings ! This is better for us, if you can make 
it appear so. People don’t like fellows of very delicate 
feelings. That alone would be conclusive against him. If 
we could persuade him to wear silk gloves, now, it would 
be only necessary to point them out on the canvass, to turn 
the stomachs of the electors, and their votes with their 
stomachs. They would throw him up instantly. 

Beauchampe shook his head. The other interpreted the 
motion incorrectly. 

“ What ! you do not believe it. Never doubt. The fact 
ic cert!. in. Such would be the case. Did you ever hear 
the story of Barnabas in his first campaign ?” 


STUMP TACTICS* 


78 


“ No ! — not that I recollect.’’ 

“He was stumping it through your own county of Simp- 
son. There were two candidates against him. One of 
them stood no chance. That was certain. The other, 
however, was generally considered to be quite as strong if 
not stronger than Barnabas. Now Barnabas, in those days, 
was something of a dandy. He wore fine clothes, a long- 
tail blue, a steeple-crowned beaver, and silk-gloves. Old 
Ben Jones, his uncle, saw him going out on the canvass in 

this unseasonable trim ; told him he was a d d fool ; that 

the very coat, and gloves, and hat, would lose him the elec- 
tion. 4 Come in with me,’ said the old buck. He did so, 
and Jones rigged him out in a suit of buckskin breeches ; 
gave him an old slouch tied with a piece of twine ; made 
him put on a common homespun roundabout ; and sent him 
on the campaign with these accoutrements.” 

“ A mortifying exchange to Barnabas.” 

“ Not a bit. The fellow was so eager for election, that 
he’d have gone without clothes at all, sooner than have 
missed a vote. But one thing the old man did not remem- 
ber — the silk-gloves — and Barnabas had nearly reached 
the muster-ground before he recollected that he had them 
On his hands. He took ’em off instantly, and thrust ’em 
into his pocket. When he reached the ground, he soon 
discovered the wisdom of old Jones’s proceedings. He 
was introduced to his chief opponent, and never was there 
a more rough-and-tumble-looking ruffian under the sun. 
Barnabas swears that he had not washed his face and hands 
for a week. His coat was out at the elbows, and though 
made of cloth originally both blue and good, it was evi- 
dently not made for the present wearer. His breeches 
were common homespun ; and his shoes, of yellow-belly, 
were gaping on both feet. He had on stockings, however. 
Barnabas looked and felt quite genteel alongside of him ; 
but he felt his danger also. He saw that the appearance 
of the fellow was very much in his favor. There was al- 

i 


74 


BEAUCHAMP. 


ready a crowd around him ; and, when he talked, his words 
were of that rough sort which is supposed to indicate the 
true staple of popular independence. As there was nothing 
much in favor or against any of the candidates, unless it 
was that one of them — not Barnabas — was suspected of 
horse -stealing, all that the speakers could do was to prove 
their own republicanism, and the aristocracy of the oppo- 
nent. Appearances would help or dissipate this charge ; 
and Barnabas saw, shabby as he was, that his rival was 
still shabbier. A bright thought took him. that night. 
Fumbling in his pockets while they w r ere drinking at the 
hotel, he felt his silk-gloves. What does he do, but, going 
to his room, he takes out his pocket inkstand and pen, and 
marks in large letters the initials of his opponent upon 
them. This done, he watches his chance, and the next 
morning when they were about to go forth to the place of 
gathering, he slips the gloves very slyly into the other fel- 
low’s pocket. The thing worked admirably. In the midst 
of the speech, Joel Peguay — for that was his rival’s name 
— endeavoring to pull out a ragged cotton pocket-hand- 
kerchief, drew out the gloves, which fell behind him on the 
ground. Barnabas was on the watch, and, pointing the 
eyes of the assembly to the tokens of aristocracy, ex- 
claimed — 

“ 4 This, gentlemen, is a proof of the sort of democracy 
which Joel Peguay practises .’ 

44 A universal shout, mixed with hisses, arose. Peguay 
looked round, and, when he was told what was the matter, 
answered with sufficient promptness, and a look of extraor- 
dinary exultation : — 

44 4 Fellow-citizens, ain't this only another proof of the 
truth of what I’m a-telling you ? — for, look you, them nasty 
fine things come out of this coat-pocket, did they V 

44 4 Yes, yes ! w*e saw them drop, Joel,’ was the cry from 
fifty voices. 

44 4 Very good,’ said Joel, nowise discomfited , 4 and the 


STUMP TACTICS. 


75 


coat was borrowed, for this same occasion, from Tom Mead- 
ows. I hain’t a decent coat of my own, my friends, to come 
before you-*- none but a round jacket, and that’s tore down 
in the back — and so, you see, I begged Tom Meadows for 
the loan of his’n, and I reckon the gloves must be his’n too, 
since they fell out of the pocket.’ 

44 This explanation called for a triumphant shout from 
the friends of Peguay, and the affair promised' to redound 
still more in favor of the speaker, when Barnabas, shaking 
his head gravely, and picking up the gloves, which he held 
from him as if they had been saturated in the dews of the 
bohon upas, drew the eyes of those immediately at hand to 
the letters which they bore. 

44 4 1 am sorry,’ said he, 4 to interrupt the gentleman ; but 
there is certainly some mistake here. These gloves are 
marked J. P., which stands for Joel Peguay, and not Tom 
Meadows. See for yourselves, gentlemen — you all can 
read, 1 know — here’s J. P. I’m not much of a reader, 
being too poor to have much of an education ; but I know 
pretty much what you all do, that if these gloves belonged 
to Tom Meadows, they would have been marked T. M. : 
the T for Tom, and the M for Meadows. I don’t mean 
to say that they are not Tom’s ; but I do say that it’s very 
strange that Tom Meadows should write his name Joel 
Peguay. I say it’s strange, gentlemen — very strange — 
that’s all !’ 

44 And that was enough. There was no more shouting 
from the friends of Peguay. He was completely con- 
founded. lie denied and disputed, of course ; but the 
proofs were too strong, and Barnabas had done his part of 
the business with great skill and adroitness. Joel Peguay 
descended from the stump, swearing vengeance against 
Meadows, who, he took for granted, had contrived the ex- 
hibition secretly, only to defeat him. No doubt a fierce 
feud followed between the parties, but Barnabas was elect- 
ed by a triumphant vote.” 


76 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


44 And do you really think, colonel,” said Beauclianipe, 
“ that this silly proceeding had any effect in producing the 
result ?” 

44 Silly, indeed ! By my soul, such silly things, Master 
Beauchampe, have upset empires. The tumbling of an old 
maid’s cap has done more mischief. I can tell you, from 
my own experience, that a small matter like this has turned 
the scale in many a popular election. Barnabas beli&Ves 
to this day that he owes his success entirely to that little 
ruse de guerre .” 

44 I know not how to believe it.” 

44 Because you know not yet that little, strange, mousing, 
tiger-like, capricious, obstinate, foolish animal, whom we 
call man. When you know him more, you will wonder 
less.” 

44 Perhaps so,” said Beauchampe. 44 At all events, I can 
only say that, while I will turn out for you and do all I can 
to secure your election as in duty bound, I will endeavor 
to urge your claims on other grounds.” 

44 As you please, my good fellow. Convince them that I 
am a patriot, and a prophet, and the best man for them, 
and I care nothing by what process it is done. And if you 
can lay bare the corresponding deficiencies of mine oppo- 
nent — this fellow Calvert — it is a part of the same policy, 
to be sure.” 

“ But not so obviously,” replied the other, 44 for as yet, 
you remember, we know nothing of him, and can not ac- 
cordingly pronounce upon his deficiencies.” 

“ You forget — his aristocracy !” 

44 Ah ! that is conjectural, you know.” 

44 Granted,” said the other, “ but what more do you want? 
A plausible conjecture is the Very sort of argument in a 
popular election.” 

“ But scarcely an honorable one.*’ 

44 Honorable ! poll ! poll ! poli ! Old Thurston has seri- 
ously diseased you* feeatiditifiijltb We rnest undertake 


StfrMP TACTICS. ?? 

your treatment for this weakness— this boyish weakness. 
It is a boyish weakness, Beauchampe.” 

“ Perhaps so, but it makes my strength.” 

“It will always keep you feeble — certainly keep yoti 
down in the political world.” 

The young man smiled. The other, speaking hastily, 
continued : — 

“ But this need not be discussed at present. Enbugh 
that you will take the field, and be ready at my Siittitnons. 
Turn the state of parties in your mind, and that will give 
you matter enough for the stump. Read that letter of 
Calvert ; I doubt not it will give you more than sufficient 
material. From a hasty glance, I see that he distrusts the 
people ; that , as a stern democrat, you can resent happily. 
I leave that point to you. You will regard that opinion as 
a falsehood; I think it worse — a mistake in policy. It is 
to this same people that he addresses his claims. IIow far 
his opinion is an impertinence may be seen in his appeal to 
the very judgment which he decries. This, to my mind, is 
conclusive against his own. But this must not make us 
remiss. I will write to you when the time comes, and at 
intervals, should there be anything new to communicate. 
But you had better stay to dinner. Seriously, my wife ex- 
pects you.” 

“ Excuse me to her — but I must go. I so long to see 
my sisters, and they will be on the lookout for me. I have 
already written them.” 

With a few words more, and the young lawyer separated 
from his late legal preceptor. When he was gone, the lat- 
ter stroked his chin complacently as he soliloquized : — 

“ He will do to break ground with this fellow Calvert. 
He is ardent, soon roused ; and if I am to judge of Calvert 
from his letter, he is a stubborn colt, whose heels are very 
apt to annoy any injudicious assailant. Ten to one, that, 
with his fiery nature, Beauchampe finds cause of quarrel 
in any homely truth. They may fight, and this hurts me 


78 


beauchampe. 


nothing. At least, Beauchampe may be a very good foil 
for the first strokes' of this new enemy. Barbanas says he 
is to be feared. If so, he must be grappled with fearlessly. 
There* is no hope else. At all events, I will see, by his 
ssue with Beauchampe, of what stuff he is made. Some- 
thing in that. And yet, is all so sure with this boy ? He 
has his whims ; is sometimes suspicious ; obstinate as a mule 
when roused ; and has some ridiculous notions about virtue, 
and all that sort of thing. At least, he must be managed 
cautiously — very cautiously!” 

We leave the office of Colonel Warham P. Sharpe for a 
while, to attend the progress of the young man of whom he 
was speaking. 


BEAUCIlAMPE AT H03UL 


3 


CHAPTER VI. 

BEAUCHAMPE AT HOME. 

Beauchampe was on his way to the maternal mansiou 
We have already endeavored to afford the reader some 
idea of the character of this person. It does not need that 
we should dilate more at large on the abstract constituents 
of his nature. We may infer that his mind was good, from 
the anxiety which his late teacher displayed to have it put 
in requisition in his behalf during the political campaign 
which was at hand. The estimate of his temperament by 
the same person will also be sufficient for us. That he was 
of high, manly bearing, and honorable purpose, we may 
also conclude from the share which he took in the prece- 
ding dialogue. 

Of his judgment, however, doubts may be entertained. 
With something more than the ardor of youth, Beauchampe 
had all of its impatience. He was of that fiery mood, when 
aroused, which too effectually blinds the possessor to the 
strict course of propriety. His natural good sense was but 
too often baffled by this impetuosity of his temper ; and, 
though in the brief scene in which he has been suffered to 
appear, we have beheld nothing in his deportment which 
was not becomingly modest and deliberate, we are con- 
strained to confess that the characteristic of much deliber- 
ation is not natural to him, and was induced, in the present 
instance, by a sense of his late elevation to a new and ex- 


Bl5A tJCH A Mi 1 F). 


3 ‘S 

acting profession ; the fact that he was in the presence of 
his late teacher ; and that he had, the night before, partici- 
pated, however unconsciously, in a debauch, of the perform- 
ances of which he was really most heartily ashamed. His 
manner has therefore been subdued, but only for a while. 
We shall see him before long under very different aspects ; 
betraying all the ardor and impetuosity of his disposition, 
and, as is usual in such cases, not always in that way which 
is most favorable to the shows of judgment. 

Beauchampe was the second son of a stanch Kentucky 
farmer. He had received quite as good an education as 
the resources of the country at that time could afford. 
This education was not very remarkable, it is true ; but, 
with the advantage of a lively nature and retentive mem- 
ory, it brought into early exercise all the qualities of his 
really excellent intellect. He became a good English 
speaker, and a tolerable Latin scholar. He read with 
avidity, and studied with industry ; and, at the age of 
twenty-one, was admitted to the practice of law in the 
courts of the state. This probation over, with the natural 
feeling of a heart which the world has not yet utterly 
weaned from the affections and dependencies of its youth, 
he was hurrying home to his mother and sisters, to receive 
their congratulations, and share with them the pride and 
delight which such an occasion of his return would natu- 
rally inspire. 

Hitherto, his mother and sisters have had all his affec- 
tions. The blind deity has never disturbed his repose, di- 
verted his eyes from these objects of his regard, or inter- 
fered with his mental cogitations. Dreams of ambition were 
in his mind, but not yet with sufficient strength or warmth 
as to subdue the claims of that domestic love which the 
kindnesses of a beloved mother, and the attachments of dear 
sisters, had impressed upon his heart*. He had his images 
of beauty, perhaps, along with his images of glory, but they 
were rather the creations of a lively fancy, in moments of 


BEAUCHAMPE AT HOME. 81 

mental abstraction, than any more real impressions upon 
the unwritten tablets of his soul. 

These were still fair and smooth. His life had not been 
touched by many griefs or annoyances. His" trials had 
been few, his mortifications brief. He was not yet con- 
scious of any wants which would induce feelings of care and 
anxiety ; and, with a spirit gradually growing lighter and 
more elastic, as the number of miles rapidly diminished be- 
neath the feet of his horse, he forgot that he was alone in 
his journeyings ; a light heart and a lively fancy brought 
him pleasant companions enough, that beguiled the time, 
and cheered the tediousness of his journey. The youth was 
thinking of his home — and what a thought is that in the 
bosom of youth ! The old cottage shrunk up in snug little- 
ness among the venerable guardian trees, and the green 
grass-plat and the half-blind house-dog, and a thousand ob- 
jects besides, forced themselves, through the medium of his 
memory, upon his delighted imagination. Then he beheld 
his sisters hurrying out to meet him — Jane running for 
dear life, half mad, and shouting back to Mary, the more 
grave sister, who slowly followed. Jane shrieking with 
laughter, and Mary with not a word, but only her extended 
hand and her tears ! 

Strange ! that even at such a moment as this, while these 
were the satisfying images in his mind, there should intrude 
another which should either expel these utterly, or should 
persuade him that they were not enough to satisfy his mind 
or confer happiness upon his heart. Why, when, in his 
dreaming fancy, these dear sisters appeared so lovely and 
were so fond, why should another form — itself a fancy — 
arise in the midst, which should make him heedless and 
forgetful of all others, and fixed only on itself! The eye 
of the youth grew sadder as he gazed and felt. He no 
longer spurred his steed impatiently along the path, but, 
forgetful in an instant of his progress, he ttiiiSed upon the 
heart’s ideal, which a passing fancy had presented, and 


82 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


all the bright sweet domestic fora:? vanished from his 
sight. 

The feeling of Beauchampe was natural enough. He felt 
it to be so. It was an instinct which every heart of any 
sensibility must feel in progress of time ; even though the 
living object be yet wanting to the sight, upon which the 
imagination may expend its own colors in seeking to estab- 
lish the identity between the sought and the found. 

But was it not late for him to feel this instinct for the 
first time ? Why had he not felt it before ? Why, just at 
that moment — just when his fancy had invoked around him 
all the images which had ever brought him happiness be- 
fore — forms which had supplied all his previous wants — 
smiles and tones which had left nothing which he could de- 
sire — why, just then, should that foreign instinct arise and 
expel, as with a single glance, the whole family of joys 
known to his youthful heart. Expelling them, indeed, but 
only to awaken him to the conviction of superior joys and 
possessions far more valuable. 

It was an instinct, indeed ; and never was youthful mind 
so completely diverted, in a single instant, from the consid- 
eration of a long succession of dear thoughts, to that of one, 
now dearer perhaps than all, but which had never made 
one of his thoughts before. 

He now remembered that, of all his schoolmates and 
youthful associates, there had not been one, who had not 
professed a passionate flame for some smiling damsel in his 
neighborhood. Among his brother students-at-law, that 
they should love was quite as certain as that they should 
have frequent attacks of the passion, and of course, on each 
occasion, for some different object. 

He alone had gone unscathed. He alone had run the 
gauntlet of smiles and glances, bright eyes and lovely 
cheeks, without detriment. The thought had never dis- 
turbed him thefij when he was surrounded by beauty; why 
should It How, when lid apparent object of passion was nigh 


BEAUCHAMPE AT HOME. 


8C 


him, and when but a small distance from his mother’s farm 
he had every reason to think only of that and the dear rel- 
atives which there awaited him? There was a fatality 
in it ! 

At that moment he was roused from his reveries by a 
pistol-shot which sounded in the wood a little distance be- 
fore him. 

The circumstance was a singular one. The wood was 
very close and somewhat extensive. He knew the spot 
very well. It was scarcely more than a mile from his moth- 
er’s cottage. He knew of no one in the neighborhood who 
practised pistol-shooting ; but, on this head, he was not ca- 
pable to judge. He had been absent from his home for 
two years. There might — there must have been changes. 
At all events no mischief seemed to be afoot. There was 
but one shot. He himself was safe, and he rode forward, 
relieved somewhat of his reveries, at a trifling increase of 
speed. 

The road led him round the wood in which the shot had 
been heard, making a sweep like a crescent, in order to 
avoid some rugged inequalities of the land. As he followed 
its windings he was suddenly startled to see, just before 
him, a female, well-dressed, tall, and of a carriage unusu- 
ally firm and majestic. Under her arm she carried a small 
bundle wrapped up in a dark silk pocket-handkerchief. 

She crossed the road hastily, and soon buried herself out 
of sight in the woods opposite. She gave him but a single 
glance in passing, but this glance enabled him to distin- 
guish features of peculiar brilliancy and beauty. The mo- 
ment after, she was gone from sight, and it seemed as if 
the pathway grew suddenly dark. Her sudden appear- 
ance -and rapid transition was like that of a gleam of sum- 
mer lightning. 

Involuntarily he spurred his horse forward, and his eyes 
peered keenly into the wood which she had entered. He 
could still see the white glimmer of her garments. He 


84 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


stopped) like one bewildered, to watch. At one moment 
he felt like dismounting and darting in pursuit of her. But 
such impertinence might receive the rebuke which it merit- 
ed. She did not seem to need any service, and on no other 
pretence could he have pursued. 

He grew more and more bewildered while he gazed, and 
mused upon the incident. This vision was so strange and 
startling ; and so singularly in unison with the fancies 
which had just before possessed his mind. That his heart 
should now, for the first time, present him with an ideal 
form of attraction and delight, and that, a moment after, a 
form of beauty should appear, so unexpectedly, in so unu- 
sual a place, was at least a very strange coincidence. 

Nothing could be more natural than that the fancy of the 
young man should find these two forms identical. It is an 
easy matter for the ardent nature to deceive itself. But 
here another subject of doubt presented itself to the mind 
of Beauchampe. Was this last vision more certainly real 
than the former ? It was no longer to be seen. Had he 
seen it except in his mind’s eye, where the former bright 
ideal had been called up ? So sudden had been the ap- 
pearance, so rapid the transition, that he turned from the 
spot now half doubting its reality. Slowly he rode away, 
musing strangely, and we may add sadly — often looking 
back, and growing more and more bewildered as he mused, 
until relieved and diverted by the more natural feelings 
of the son and brother, as, the prospect opening before his 
eyes, he beheld the farmstead of his mother. 

In the doorway of the old cottage stood the venerable 
woman, while the two girls were approaching, precisely as 
his fancy had shown them, the one bounding and crying 
aloud, the other moving slowly, and with eyes which were 
already moist with tears. They had seen him before he 
had sufficiently awakened from his reveries to behold them. 

“ All, Jane — dear Mary !” were the words of the youth, 
throwing himself from the horse and severally clasping 


beauchampe at home. 


85 


them in his arms. The former laughed, sang, danced, and 
capered. The latter clung to the neck of her brother, sob- 
bing as heartily as if they were about to separate. 

“Why, what’s Mary crying for, I wonder?” said the 
giddy girl. 

“ Because my heart’s so full, I must cry,’’ murmured the 
other. Taking an arm of each in his own, Beauehampe 
led them to the old lady, whose crowning embrace was be- 
stowed with the warmth of one who clasps and confesses 
the presence of her idol. 

We pass over the first ebullitions of domestic love. Most 
people can imagine these. It is enough to say that ours is 
a family of love. They have been piously brought up. 
Mrs. Beauehampe is a woman of equal benignity and intel- 
ligence. They have their own little world of joy in and 
among themselves. The daughters are single-hearted and 
gentle, and no small vanities and petty strifes interfere to 
diminish the confidence in one, and another, and themselves, 
which brings to them the hourly enjoyment of the all-in-all 
content. It will not be hard to fancy the happiness of the 
household in the restoration of Its tall and accomplished 
son — tall and handsome, and so kind, and so intelligent, 
and just now made a lawyer too ! Jane was half beside 
herself, and Mary’s tears were constantly renewed as they 
looked at the manly brother, and thought of these things. 

“ But why did you ride so slow, Orville ?” demanded 
Jane, as she sat upon his knee and patted his cheek. Mary 
was playing with his hair from behind. “ You came at a 
snail's pace, and didn’t seem to see anybody ; and there was 
I hallooing to make you hear, and all for nothing.’’ 

“ Don’t worry Orville with your questions, Jane,” said 
the more sedate Mary. “ He was tired, perhaps — ” 

“ Or his heart was too full also,” said Jane, interrupting 
her mischievously. “ But it’s not either of these, I’m sure, 
Orville, for I know horseback don’t tire you, and I’m sure 
your heart’s not so very full, for you hav’n’t shed a tear 


BEAtJCiTAMlPfi 


% 

yet. No, no ! it’s something else, for yon not only rode 
slow, but you kept looking behind you all the while, as if 
you were expecting somebody. Now, who were you look^ 
ing for ? Tell me, tell Jane, dear brother !” 

Now you hit it, Jane ! The reason I rode slowly and 
looked behind me — mind me, I rode pretty fast until I 
came almost in sight of home — was, because I did expect 
to see some one coming behind me, though I had not much 
cause to expect it either.” 

“ Who was it ?” 

“ That’s the question. Perhaps you can tell me;” and, 
with these words, the young man proceeded to relate the 
circumstance, already described, of the sudden advent of 
that bright vision which had so singularly taken the place, 
in our hero’s mind, of his heart’s ideal. 

“ It must be Miss Cooke, mother,” said the girls with 
one breath. 

“ And who is Miss Cooke ?” 

“ Oh ! that’s the mystery. She’s a sort of queen, I’m 
thinking,” said Jane, “ or she wants you to think her one, 
which is more likely.” 

“Jane ! Jane !” said Mary, who was the younger sister, 
in reproachful accents. 

“ Well, what am I saying, but what’s the truth ? Don’t 
she carry herself like a queen ? Isn’t she as proud and 
stately as if she was better than anybody else ?” 

“ If she’s a queen, it’s a tragedy -queen,” said the graver 
sister. “ I don’t deny that she’s very stately, but then I’m 
sure she’s also very unhappy.” 

“ I don’t believe in her unhappiness at all. I can’t 
think any person so very unhappy who carries herself so 
proudly.” 

“ Pride itself may be a cause of unhappiness, Jane,” said 
the mother. 

“ Yes, mamma, but are we to sympathize with it, I waiA 
to know ?” 


8 ? 


fcEAtfCHAMPE AT HOME. 

u Perhaps ! It is not less to be pitied because the owner 
has no such notion. But your brother is waiting to hear 
something of Miss Cooke, and, instead of telling him who 
she is, you're telling him what she is.” 

“ And no better way, perhaps,” said the brother. “ But 
do you tell me, Mary: Jane is quite too much given to 
scandal.” 

“ Oh, brother !” said Jane. 

“ Too true, Jane ; but go on, Mary, and let us have a key 
to this mystery. Who is Miss Cooke ?” 

“ She’s a young lady — ” 

“ Very pretty ?” 

“ Very ! She came here about two years ago — just after 
you went from Parson Thurston to study law — she and 
her mother, and they took the old place of Farmer Davis. 
They came from some other part of Simpson, so I have 
heard, and bought this place from Widow Davis. They 
have a few servants, and are comfortably fixed ; and Mrs. 
Cooke is quite a chatty body, very silly in some things, but 
fond of going about among the neighbors. Her daughter, 
who is named Anna, though I once heard the old lady call 
her Margaret — ” 

“ Margaret Anna, perhaps — she may have two names,” 
said the brother. 

“ Yery likely ; but the daughter is not sociable. On the 
contrary, she rather avoids everybody. You do not often 
see her when you go there, and she has never been here 
but once, and that shortly after her first arrival. As Jane 
says, she is not only shy, but stately. Jane thinks it pride, 
but I do not agree with her. I rather think that it is owing 
to a natural dignity of mind, and to manners formed under 
other circumstances ; for she never smiles, and there is such 
a deep look of sadness about her eyes, that I can’t help 
believing her to be very unhappy. I sometimes think that 
phe has probably been disappointed in love.” 

“ Yes, Mary thinks the strangest things about her. She 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


88 

says she’s sure that she’s been engaged, and that her lover 
has played her false, and deserted her.’* 

“ Oh, Jane, you mistake ; I said I thought he might have 
been killed in a duel, or — ” 

“ Or that he deserted her ; for that matter, Mary, you’ve 
been having a hundred conceits about her ever since she 
came here.” 

“ She is pretty, you say, Mary ?” asked the young man, 
who by this time had ejected Jane from his knee, and trans- 
ferred her younger sister to the same place. 

“ Pretty ? she is beautiful.” 

“ I can’t see it for my part,” said Jane, u with her solemn 
visage, and great dark eyes, that seem always sharp like 
daggers ready to run you through.” 

“ She is beautiful, brother, very beautiful, but Jane don’t 
like her because she thinks her proud. She’s as beautiful 
in her face as she is noble in her figure. Her stateliness, 
indeed, arises, I think, from the symmetry and perfect pro- 
portion of her person ; for when she moves, she does not 
seem to be at all conscious that she is stately. Her move- 
ments are very natural, as if she had practised them all her 
life. And they say, mother, that she’s very smart.” 

“ Who says, sister?” cried Jane — “who but old Mrs. 
Fisher, and only because she saw her fixing a bushel of 
oooks upon the shelves at her first coming !” 

“ No, Jane ; Judge Crump told me that he spoke to her, 
and that he had never believed a woman could be so sensi- 
' ble till then.” 

“That shows he's a poor judge. Who’d take old 
Crump's opinion about a woman’s sense ? Pm sure 1 
wouldn’t.” 

“ But Miss Cooke is very sensible, brother. Jane does 
dislike her so !” 

“ Well, supposing she is sensible, it’s only what she ought 
to be by this time. She’s old enough to have the sense of 
two young women at least.” 


BEAUCHAMPE AT HOME. 80 

“ Old !” exclaimed Beauchampe. “ The lady I saw was 
not old, certainly.” 

The suggestion seemed to give the young man some 
annoyance, which the gentle-hearted Mary hastened to re 
move. 

‘‘She is not old, Orville. Jane, how can you say so? 
You know that Miss Cooke can hardly be over twenty-one 
or two, even if she’s that.” 

“ Well, and ain’t that old ? You, Mary, are sixteen only, 
and I’m but seventeen and three months. But I’m certain 
she’s twenty-five if she’s a day.” 

The subject is one fruitful of discussion where ladies are 
concerned. Beauchampe, having experience of the two 
sisters, quietly sat and listened ; and, by the use of a mod- 
erate degree of patience, soon contrived to learn all that 
could be known of that neighbor who, it appears, had occa- 
sioned quite as great a sensation in the bosoms of the sis- 
ters, though of a very different sort, as her momentary pres- 
ence had inspired in his own. The two girls, representing 
extremes, were just the persons to give him a reasonable 
idea of the real facts in the case of the person under dis- 
cussion, It may be unnecessary to add that the result was, 
to increase the mystery, and heighten the curiosity which 
the young man now felt in its solution. 


m 


BEAUCHAMPL 


CHAPTER VII. 

PROGRESS OP DISCOVERY. 

When the first sensations following the return of our 
hero to his home and family had somewhat subsided, the 
enthusiastic and excitable nature of the former naturally 
led him to dwell upon the image of that strange lady, 
whose sudden appearance seemed to harmonize so singu- 
larly with the ideal of his waking dream. The very morn- 
ing after his arrival, he sallied forth at an early hour, with 
his gun in hand, ostensibly with a view to birding, but re- 
ally to catch some glimpse of the mysterious peison. For 
this purpose, as all the neighborhood and neighboring coun- 
ty was familiar to him, he traversed the hundred routes to 
and from the farmstead of old Davis, which the stranger 
now occupied, and wasted some precious hours, in which 
neither his heart nor his gun found game, in exploring the 
deep wood whence the pistol-shot, the day before, had first 
challenged his attention. 

But no bright vision blessed his search that day. lie 
found nothing to interest his mind or satisfy his curiosity, 
unless it were a tree which he discovered barked with bul- 
lets, where some person had evidently been exercising, and 
— assuming the instrument to have been a pistol — with a 
singular degree of success. The discovery did not call for 
the thought of a single moment? and, contenting himself 
with the conjecture that some young rifleman was thus 


PROGRESS OP DISCOVERY. 


91 


u teaching the young idea how to shoot,” he turned off, 
•and, with some weariness, and more disappointment, made 
his way, birdless, to his cottage. 

But the disappointment rather increased than lessened 
his curiosity ; and, before two days had passed, he had 
acquired boldness enough to advance so nearly to the dwel- 
ling of Miss Cooke, as, sheltered beneath some friendly 
shade-trees, to see the passers by the window, and on one 
or more occasions to catch a glimpse of the one object for 
whom all these pains were taken. 

These glimpses, it may be said, served rather to inflame 
than to satisfy his curiosity. He saw enough to convince 
him that Mary was right, and Jane wrong; that he was 
not deceived in his first impression of the exceeding loveli- 
ness of the mysterious stranger ; that she was beautiful 
beyond any comparison that he could make — of a rare, 
rich, and excelling beauty : and slowly he returned from 
his wanderings, to muse upon the means by which he should 
arrive at a more intimate knowledge of the fair one. who 
was represented to be as inaccessible as she was fair — like 
one of those unhappy damsels of whom we read in old ro- 
mances, locked up in barred and gloomy towers, lofty and 
well guarded, whose charms, if they were the incentives to 
chivalry and daring, were quite as often the cruel occasion 
of bloody strife and most unfortunate adventure. 

The surpassing beauty of our heroine, so strangely coupled 
with her sternness of deportment and loneliness of habit, 
naturally enough brought into activity the wild imagination 
and fervent temperament of our young lawyer. By these / 
means her beauty was heightened, and the mystery which 
enveloped her was made the parent of newer sources of 
attraction. Before three days had passed, his sisters had 
discovered that his thought was running only on their fair, 
strange neighbor ; and at length, baffled in his efforts to 
encounter the mysterious lady in his rambles, he was fain 
10 declare himself more openly at home, and to insist that 


jr; 


BEAUCHAMP!!. 


his sisters should call upon Miss Cooke and her moth el 4 , 
and invite them to tea. 

This was done accordingly, but with only partial success. 
Mrs. Cooke came, but not the daughter, who sent an ex- 
cuse. Beauchampe paid his court to the old lady, whom 
he found very garrulous and very feeble-minded ; but though 
she spoke with great freedom on almost every other subject, 
he remarked that she shrunk suddenly into silence when- 
ever reference was made to her daughter. 

On this point everything tended to increase the mystery, 
and, of course, the interest. He attended the mother home 
that night, in the ftope to be permitted to see the daughter ; 
but though, when invited to enter, he did so, he found the 
tete-a-tete with the old lady — a half-hour which curiosity 
readily gave to dullness — unrelieved by the presence of 
the one object for whom he sought. But a well-filled book- 
case, which met his eyes in the hall, suggested to him a 
mode of approach in future of which he did not scruple to 
avail himself. He complimented the old lady on the ex- 
tent of her literary possessions. Such a collection was not 
usual at that time among the country-houses of that region. 
He spoke of his passion for books, and how much he would 
be pleased to be permitted to obtain such as he wanted from 
the collection before him. 

The old lady replied that they were her daughter’s, who 
was also passionately fond of books ; that she valued her 
collection very highly — they were almost her only friends 
— but she had no doubt that Mr. Beauchampe would readily 
receive her permission to take any that he desired for pe 
rusal. 

Beauchampe expressed his gratitude, but judiciously de- 
clined to make his selection that night. The permission 
necessarily furnished the sanction for a second visit, for 
which he accordingly prepared himself. He suffered a day, 
however, to pass — a forbearance that called for the exer- 
cise of no small degree of fortitude — before repeating his 


PROGRESS OF DISCOVERY. 


n 


visit. The second morning, however, he went. He saw 
the young lady, for a brief instant, at the window, while 
making his approaches — but that was all ! He was admit- 
ted, was received by the mother, treated with great kind- 
ness, and spent a full hour — how we say not — in company 
with the venerable and voluble dame. She accorded him 
the permission of her daughter to use any book in the col- 
lection, but the daughter herself did not appear. He mus- 
tered courage enough to ask for her, but the inquiry was 
civilly evaded. He was finally compelled, after lingering 
to the last, and hoping against hope, to take his departure 
without attaining the real object of his visit. Tie selected 
a volume, however, not that he cared to read it, but simply 
because the necessity of returning it would afford him the 
occasion and excuse for another visit. 

The proverb tells us that grass never grows beneath the 
footsteps of true love. It is seldom suffered to grow be- 
neath those of curiosity. Our hero either read, or pre- 
tended to have read, the borrowed volume, in a very short 
space of time. The next morning found him with it be- 
neath his arm, and on his way to the cottage of the Cookes. 
The grave looks of his mother, and the sly looks of his sis- 
ters, were all lost upon him; and, pluming himself some- 
what upon the adroitness which disguised the real purpose 
of his visits, he flattered himself that he should still attain 
the object which he sought, without betraying the interest 
which he felt. 

Of course, he himself did not suspect the real motives by 
which he was governed. That a secret passion stirring in 
his breast had anything to do with that interest which he 
felt to know the strange lady, was by no means obvious to 
his own mind. 

Whatever may have been the motive by which his con- 
duct was influenced, it did not promise to be followed by 
any of the results which he desired. His second morning- 
call was not more fortunate than the first. Approaching, 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


94 

he saw the outline of Miss Cooke’s person at an upper win, 
dow, but she instantly disappeared ; and he was received 
below, and wholly entertained, by the good old mother. 

It may readily be imagined that, with a fervent, passion- 
ate nature, such as Beauchampe’s, this very baffling of his 
desires was calculated to stimulate and strengthen them. 
He was a man of equally strong impulses and indomitable 
will. The necessary creature of such qualities of mind is 
a puritan tenacity of purpose — a persevering energy, which 
ceases altogether, finally, to sleep in the work of conquest ; 
or, at least, converts even its sleeping hours into tasks of 
thought, and wild, vague dreams of modes and operations, 
by which the work of conquest is to be carried on. The 
momentary glimpses of the damsel’s person, which the ar- 
dent youth was permitted to obtain, still kept alive in his 
mind the strong impression which her beauty had originally 
made. We do not insinuate that this exhibition was de- 
signed by the lady herself for any such object. Such might 
be the imputation — nay, was, in after-days, by some of her 
charitable neighbors — but we have every reason for think- 
ing otherwise. We believe that she was originally quite 
sincere in her desire to avoid the sight and discourage the 
visits of strangers. Whether this was also the desire of 
the mother, is not so very certain. We should suppose, on 
the contrary, that the course of her daughter was one that 
afforded little real satisfaction to her. If the daughter re- 
mained inflexible, the good mother soon convinced Beau- 
champe that she was not; and, saving the one topic — the 
daughter herself — there was none upon which good Mrs. 
Cooke did not expatiate to her visiter with the assured 
freedoms of a friend of a thousand years. Any approach 
to this subject, however, effectually sile iced her: not, it 
would seem, because she herself felt any repugnance to the 
eubject — for Beauchampe could not fail to perceive that 
her eyes brightened whenever the daughter was referred 
to — but her voice was hurried when she replied on such 


PROGRESS OF DISCOVERY. 


95 


occasions, and her glance stealthily turned to the entrance, 
as if she dreaded lest the sound should summon other ears 
to the apartment. 

The curiosity of Beauchampe was further stimulated by a 
general examination of the contents of the library. Too 
selection was such as, in regions where books are more Li 
requisition, and seem more in place, would testify consiu 
erably in behalf of the judgment and good taste of the pos- 
sessor. They were all English books, it is true, but they 
were genuine classics of the best days of British literature, 
including the more recent writers of the day. There were 
additional proofs, in such as he took home with him, of the 
equal taste and industry of their reader. The fine passages 
were scored marginally with pencil-lines, and an occasional 
note in the same manner indicated the acquaintance of the 
commentator with the best standards of criticism. Beau- 
champe made another observation, however, which had the 
effect of leaving it still doubtful whether these notes were 
made by the present owner. They were all in a female 
hand. He found that a former name had been carefully 
obliberated in every volume, that of Miss Cooke being writ- 
ten in its stead. Though doubtful, therefore, whether to 
ascribe to her the excellent criticism and fine taste which 
thus displayed itself over the pages which he read, this 
doubt by no means lessened his anxiety to judge for him- 
self of the attainments of their possessor; and fortune — 
we may assume thus much — at length helped him to the 
interview which he sought. 

The mother, one day, wdtli nice judgment, fell oppor- 
tunely sick. It is easier to suspect that she willed this 
event than to suppose the daughter guilty of duplicity. It 
necessarily favored the design of Beauchampe. He made 
his morning visit, which had now become periodical, was 
ushered into the parlor, where, after a few moments, he was 
informed that Mrs. Cooke was not visible. She pleaded 
indisposition. Miss Cooke, however, had instructed the 


96 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


servant to say to Mr. Beauchampe that he was at liberty 
to use the library as before. 

By this time the eager nature of Beauchampe was excited 
•;o the highest pitch of anxiety. So many delays — such 
baffling — had deprived his judgment of that deliberate ac- 
iton, without the restraint of which the boundaries of con- 
vention are very soon overpassed. A direct message from 
the mysterious lady, was a step gained. It had the effect 
of still further unseating his judgment, and, without scruple, 
he boldly despatched a message by the servant, soliciting 
permission to see Miss Cooke. An answer was immediately 
returned in which she declined seeing him. He renewed 
the request with the additional suggestion that he had a 
communication to make. This necessarily produced the 
desired effect. In a few minutes she descended to the 
parlor. 

If Beauchampe had been fascinated before, he was cer- 
tainly not yet prepared for the commanding character of 
that beauty which now stood before him. He rose, trem- 
bling and abashed, his cheeks suffused with blushes, but his 
eyes, thougl dazzled, were full of the eager admiration 
which he felt. She was simply clad, in white. Her per- 
son, tall and symmetrical, was erect and dignified. Her 
face was that of matured loveliness, shaded, not impaired, 
by sadness, and made even more elevated and commanding 
by an expression of intense pain which seemed to mingle 
with the fire of her eyes, giving a sort of subdued fierce- 
ness "o her glance, which daunted quite as much as it daz- 
zled him. Perhaps a something of severity in her look 
added to his confusion. He stammered confusedly ; the 
courage which had prompted him to seek the interview, 
failed utterly to provide him with the intellectual readiness 
by which it was to be carried on. But the feminine instinct 
came to his relief. The lady seated herself, motioning 
her visiter to do the same. 

“ Sit down, sir, if you please. My mother presumes 


^ogress of discovery 


9t 


that you arc anxio'us to know how Sue is. She instructs 
me to thank you for your courtesy, and to say that her in- 
disposition is not serious. She trusts in another day to be 
quite restored.” 

By this time Beauchampe had recovered something of 
his confidence. 

“ It gives me pleasure, Miss Cooke, to hear this. I did 
fear that your mother was seriously suffering. But I can 
not do you and myself the injustice to admit that I came 
simply to see her. No ! Miss Cooke, an anxiety to see you 
in person, and to acknowledge the kindness which has 
given me the freedom of your library, were among the ob- 
jects of my visit.” 

The lady became instantly grave. 

u I thank you, sir, for your compliment, but I have long 
since abandoned society. My habits are reserved. I pre- 
fer solitude. My tastes and feelings equally require it. I 
am governed so far by these tastes and feelings, which have 
now become habits, that it will not suit me to recognise any 
new acquaintance. My books are freely at your service, 
whenever you wish them. Permit me, sir, to wish you good 
morning.” 

She rose to depart. Beauchampe eagerly started to his 
feet. 

“ Stay, Miss Cooke. Do not leave me thus. Hear me 
but for a moment.” 

She resumed her seat with a calm, inflexible demeanor, 
as if, assured of her strength at any moment to depart, she 
had no apprehensions on the subject of her detention. The 
blush again suffused the cheeks of Beauchampe, and the 
rigid silence which his companion observed, as if awaiting 
his utterance, suddenly increased his difficulties in this re- 
spect. But the ice once broken, his impetuous temper was 
resolved that it should not freeze again. 

“ I know, Miss Cooke,” he observed, “ after what you 
have just said, that I have no right any longer to trespass 

5 


98 


ijEAttCHAMhfe. 


upoii you, but I dai‘e not do otherwise — I dare not depart 
— I am the slave of a passion which has brought me, and 
which keeps me here.” 

“ 1 must not listen to you, Mr. Beauchampe,” she replied, 
rising, as if to leave the room. 

“Forgive me!” he exclaimed, gently detaining her — 
“ forgive me, but you must.” 

4 Must!” her eyes flashed sudden fires. 

“ I implore the privilege to use the word, but in no offen- 
sive sense. Nay, Miss Cooke — I release you — I will not 
seek to detain you. You are at liberty — with my lips only 
do I implore you to remain.” 

The proud woman examined the face of the passionate 
youth with some slight curiosity. To this, however, he was 
insensible. 

“ You are aware, Mr. Beauchampe,” she remarked, in- 
differently, “ that your conduct is somewhat unusual.” 

“ Yes, perhaps so. I believe it. Nay, were I to think, 
Miss Cooke, I should perhaps, under ordinary circumstances, 
agree to pronounce it unjustifiable. But, believe me, it is 
meant to be respectful.” 

She interrupted him : — 

“ Unless I thought so, sir, I could not be detained here 
a moment longer.” 

“ Surely, surely, Miss Cooke, you can not doubt my re- 
spect — my- ” 

a i do not, sir.” 

“Ah ! but you are so cold — so repulsive, Miss Cooke.” 

“ Perhaps I had better leave you, Mr. Beauchampe. It 
will be better for both of us. You know nothing of me ; I 
nothing of you.” 

“ You mistake, Miss Cooke, in assuming that I know 
nothing of you.” 

“ Ha ! sir !” she answered, rising to her feet, her face 
giowing like scarlet, while a blue vein, like. a chord, divided 


PROGRESS OF DISCOVERY 99 

the high white forehead in the midst. “ What mean you, 
what know you !” 

“ Much ! I know already that you are alone among 
women — alone in beauty — in intellect !” 

He paused. He marked a sudden and speaking change 
upon her features which struck him as more singular than 
the last. The flush had departed from her cheeks, the blue 
vein had suddenly sunk from sight — a complete pallor over- 
spread her face, and with a slight tremor over her frame, 
she sank upon the seat from which she had arisen. He 
sprang forward, and was at once beside her upon his knees, 
lie caught her hand in his own. 

“ You are sick — you are ill !” he exclaimed. 

“ No ! I am better now !” she answered in low tones. 

“ Thank God !” he exclaimed. “ I feared you had spasms 
— I dreaded I had offended you. You are still so pale, Miss 
Cooke — so very pale!” — and he again started to his feet 
as if to call for assistance. She arrested him. 

“ Do not alarm yourself,” she said with more firmness. 
“ I am subject to such attacks, and they form a sufficient 
reason, Mr. Beauchampc, why I should not distress stran- 
gers with them. Suffer me now to retire.” 

“ Bear with me yet awhile !” he exclaimed, “ I will try 
not to alarm or to annoy you. You ask me what I know 
of you ! nothing, perhaps, were I to answer according to 
the fashion of the world ; everything, if I answer according 
to the dictates of my heart.” 

“ It is unprofitable knowledge, Mr. Beauchampe.” 

“ Do not say so, 1 implore you. I know that I am a 
rash and foolish young man, but I mean not to offend— 
nay, my purpose is to declare the admiration which I feel.” 

“ I must not hear you, Mr. Beauchampe. I must leave 
you. As I said before, you are welcome to the use of my 
books.” 

“ Ah ! Miss Cooke, it is you, and not your books which 
nave brought me to your dwelling. Suffer me to sec you 


loo 


BEAtJCHAMPE. 


when I CQine. Suffer me to know you — to make myself 
known — to bring my sisters ; to conduct you to them. They 
will all be so glad to see and know you.” 

She shook her head mournfully, while a sad smile rested 
upon her lips as she replied : — 

“ Mr. Beauchampe,” she said, “ I will not affect to mis- 
understand you ; but I must repeat, as I have said to you 
before, I have done with society. I am in fact done with 
the world.”. 

“ Done with the world ! Oh ! what a thought ! You, 
Miss Cooke, you so able to do all with it !” 

“ You can not flatter me, Mr. Beauchampe. The world 
can be nothing to me. I am nothing to it. To wear out 
life in loneliness, forgot, forgetting, is the utmost of my 
hopes from the world. Spare me more. It is not well, it 
will not be desirable, that any intimacy should exist be- 
tween me and your sisters.” 

“ Oh ! why not ? they are so gentle, so pure !” 

“ Ah ! no more, sir, I implore you ;” her brow had sud- 
denly become clouded, and she rose. “ Leave me now, sir 
— I must leave you. I must hear you no longer.” 

Her voice was firm. Her features had suddenly put on 
their former inflexibility of expression. The passionate 
youth at once discovered that the moment for moving her 
determination was past, and every effort now to detain her 
would prejudice his cause. 

“You will leave me, Miss Cooke — you will drive mo 
from you — yet let me hope- ” 

“ Hope nothing from me, Mr. Beauchampe. I would not 
have you hope fruitlessly.” 

“ The wish itself assures me that I can not.” 

“ You mistake, sir — you deceive yourself!” she replied 
wdth sterner accents. 

“ At least let me not be denied your presence. Let me 
see you. I am not in the world, nor of it, Miss Cooke. Let 
me sometimes meet you here, and if 1 am forbid to speak of 


PROGRESS OF DISCOVERY 


101 


other things, let me at least speak and hear you speak of 
these old masters at whose feet I perceive you have been 
no idle student.” 

“ Mr. Beauchampe, I can promise nothing. To consent 
to receive and meet you would be to violate many an inter- 
nal resolve.” 

* 4 But why this dreary resolution ?” 

44 Why ! — but ask not, sir. No more from me now. You 
knew not, sir — and you meant not — but you have wakened 
m my mind this morning many a painful and dreary thought, 
which you can not dissipate. I say this to excuse myself 
lor what might seem rudeness. I do not wish to excite 
your curiosity. I tell you, sir, but the truth, when I tell 
you that I am cut off from the world — it matters not how, 
nor why. It is so — and the less I see of it the better, 
w nen you know this, you will understand why it is that I 
should prefer not to see you.” 

44 Ah ! but not why I should not seek to see you. No 
Miss Cooke, your dreary destiny does not lessen my willing 
ness to soothe — to share it.” 

“ That can never be.” 

44 Do not say so. If you knew my heart ” 

44 Keep its secrets, Mr. Beauchampe. Enough, sir, that 
I know my own. Thai , sir, has but one prayer, and that 
is for peace — but one passion, and that, sir ” 

44 Is — speak, say, Miss Cooke, tell me what this passion 
is ? Relieve me ; but tell me not that you love another. 
Not that — anything but that.” 

44 Love !” she exclaimed scornfully ; 44 lov'' ! no, sir, I do 
not love. Happily, I am free from any such weakness-- 
that weakness of my sex !” 

44 Call it not a weakness, dear Miss Cooke — but a strength 
— a strength of the heart, not peculiar to your sex, but 
the source of what is lofty and ennobling in the heart of 
man.” 

6 Ay, he has a previous stock of it, no doubt ; but no more 


102 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


of this, Mr. Beauchampe. I have my passion, perhaps, hut 
surely love makes no part of it.” 

“ What ’then ?” 

“ Hate !” she cried with startling energy. 

“ Hate ! ha ! can it be that you hate, Miss Cooke ?” 

“ Ay, sir, it is possible. Hate is my passion, not the 
only one, since it produces another bearing its own likeness.” 

u And that ? ” 

“ Is revenge ! — Ask yourself, with these passions reign- 
ing in my heart, whether there is room for anything more — 
for any other! There is not, and you may not deceive 
yourself with the vain hope to plant any feebler passion in 
a spot which bears such poisonous weeds.” 

Thus speaking she left the room, and, astounded by her 
vehemence, and by the strange though imperfect revelation 
which she had made, Beauchampe found himself alone i 


DEVELOPMENTS OF PASSION. 


103 


CHAPTER VIII. 

DEVELOPMENTS OF PASSION. 

xiAi) the words of the lady fallen from the lips of an ora- 
cle, they could not have more completely fastened them- 
selves on the ears of our hero. Tier sublime beauty as she 
spoke those wild accents was that of one inspired. Iler 
eye hashed with fires of a supernatural brightness. Her 
brow was lifted, and her hand smote upon her heart, when 
she declared what fierce passions were its possessors, as if 
they themselves were impelling the blow, and the heart was 
mat of some mortal enemy. 

Beauchampe was as completely paralyzed as if he had 
suffered an electric stroke. He would have arrested her 
departure, but his words and action were equally slow. He 
had lost the power of hands and voice ; and, when he was 
able to speak, she had gone. 

Confused, bewildered, and mortified, he left the house ; 
and sad and silent he pursued his way along the homeward 
paths. Before he had gone far he was saluted with the 
laughter of merry voices, and his sisters were at his side. 
What a contrast was that which instantly challenged the 
attention of his mind, between the girlish, almost childish 
and characterless damsels beside him, and the intense, soul- 
speaking woman he had left ! How impertinent seemed the 
levity of Jane ! how insipid the softness and milky sadness 
of the gentle-hearted Mary ! The reflections of the brother 


101 


BEAUCHAMPS 


were in no wise favorable to the sisters, but he gave no 
utterance to the involuntary thoughts. 

a Why, the queen of Sheba has struck you dumb, Brother 
Orville !” said the playful Jane. “ You have seen her to- 
day, I’m certain. That’s the way she always comes over 
one. She has had on her cloudy-cap to-day for your espe- 
cial benefit.” 

“ But have you seen her, brother ?” asked the more timid 
Mary. 

“ To be sure he has — don’t you see ? nothing less could 
make Orville look on us as old Burke, the schoolmaster, 
used to look on him when he put the nouns and verbs out 
of countenance. He has seen her to be sure, and she ?.ame 
out clothed in thunder, I reckon.” 

“ Jane, you vex Orville. But — you did see her, brother ?” 

“ Yes, Mary, Jane is right.” 

“ Didn’t I tell you ? I could see it the moment I set 
eyes on him.” 

“ And don’t you think her very beautiful, brother ?” 

“ Very beautiful, Mary.” 

“ Yes, a sort of thunderstorm beauty, I grant you,” said 
Jane; “dark and dismal, with such keen flashes of light- 
ning as to dazzle one’s eyes and terrify one’s heart !” 

“ Not a bad description, Jane,” said the brother. 

“ To be sure not. Don’t I know her ? Why, Lord love 
you, the first time we were together I felt all crumpled up, 
body and soul. My soul, indeed, was like a little mouse, 
looking everywhere for a hole to creep into and be out of 
the way of danger ; and I fancied she was a great tigress 
of a mouser, with her eyes following the mouse every which 
way, amusing herself with my terrors, and ready to spring 
upon me and end them the moment she got tired of the 
sport. I assure you I didn’t feel secure a single moment 
while I was with her. I expected to be gobbled up at a 
moment’s warning.” 

“ How yoq run on, Jane, and so unreasonably !” said the 


DEVELOPMENTS OP PASSION. 


105 


gentle Mary. “ Now, brother, I think all this description 
very unlike Anna Cooke. That she’s sad, usually, and 
gloomy sometimes, I’m. willing to admit; but she was very 
kind and gentle in what she had to say to me, and I believe 
would have been much more so, if Jane hadn’t continually 
come about us making a great laughter. That she is very 
smart I’m certain, and that she is very beautiful everybody 
with half an eye must see.” 

“ I don't, and I’ve both eyes, and pretty keen ones too.” 

“Well, girls,” said Beauchampe, “I intend that you 
shall have a good opportunity to form a correct opinion of 
Miss Cooke — her talents and her beauty. I intend to 
carry you both to visit her to-morrow.” 

“ Oh, don’t, don’t, brother, I beg you ! she’ll eat me up, 
the great mouser ! I sha’n’t be a moderate mouthful for 
her anger.” 

And the mischievous Jane darted from his side, and lifted 
up her hand with a manner of affected deprecation. 

Mary rebuked her as was usual on such occasions, and 
her rebuke was somewhat seconded by one which was 
more effectual. The brother betrayed some little displeas- 
ure as well in words as in looks, and poor Jane contrived 
to make the amende by repressing some portion of that 
lively temerity of temper which is not always innocuous in 
its pleasantries. 

In this way they proceeded to the cottage, where, in pri- 
vate, the young man contrived to let his mother know how 
much he was charmed with the mysterious lady, but not 
how much of his admiration he had revealed. On this 
head, indeed, he was as little capable as anybody else of 
telling the whole truth. He knew not, in fact, what he 
had said in the interview with Miss Cooke. He had felt 
the .impulse to say many things, and in his conscience felt 
that he might have said them ; but of the precise nature of 
his confessions he knew nothing. Something, indeed, he 
might infer from what he recollected of the language of 
5 * 


106 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


Anna Cooke to himself. He could easily Comprehend that 
the freedom with which she declared her feelings must 
have been induced in great degree by the revelation of his 
own; but, as he had no right — and, by-the-way, as little 
wish — to betray her secrets, so he naturally spared himself 
the mortification of telling his own. 

Thus matters stood with him. His mother listened 
gravely. She could see, in the faltering tongue and flushed 
face of her son, much more of the actual state of his feel- 
ings than his words declared. She was not satisfied that 
he should fall in love with Miss Cooke : not that she had 
anything against that young lady — she had none of the 
idle prejudices of her eldest daughter — but that the beau- 
tiful stranger — and she acknowledged her to be beautiful 
— did not impress her favorably. Mrs. Beauchampe w r as 
a very pious lady ; and the feeling of society is so nearly 
allied to that of pure religion, that when she found Anna 
Cooke deficient in the one tendency, she naturally suspected 
her equal lack of the other. But, in the next place, if the 
old lady had her objections to the young lady, she, at the 
same time, was too fond of her son to resist his wishes very 
long or very urgently. She contented herself with suggest- 
ing some grounds of objection, which the ardency and elo- 
quence of the latter found but little difficulty in overcom- 
ing. At all events, it was arranged that Beauchampe 
should take his sisters the next day to visit his fair, and, 
so far, tyrannical enslaver. 

From this visit, Beauchampe, though without knowing 
exactly why, had considerable expectations. At least, he 
did not despair of seeing the young lady. The mother po- 
litely kept sick — much, it may be added, to the annoyance 
of her daughter. The day came, and breakfast was scarcely 
over before the impetuous youth began to exhibit his .anxi- 
ety. But the sisters had to make their toilet, and some- 
thing, he fancied, was due to his own. A country-girl has 
her own ideas of finery, and, the difference of taste aside, 


DEVELOPMENTS OF PASSION. 


107 


the only otti3r differences between herself and the city- 
inaiden are differences in degree. The toilet is the altar 
where Vanity not only makes her preparations, but says 
her prayers. We care not to ask whether Love be the 
image that stands above it or not. Perhaps there are few 
calculations of the young female heart in which Love does 
not enter as an inevitable constituent. Certainly, few of 
her thoughts are altogether satisfactory, if they bear not 
his figures in the woof. 

Beauchampe’s sisters fairly put his patience to the test ; 
and, strange to say, his favorite sister Mary was much the 
most laggard in her proceedings. She certainly had never 
before made such an unnecessary fuss about her pretty 
little person. At length, however, all were made ready. 
The party sallied forth, reached the house of Mrs. Cooke, 
were admitted, and, after a brief delay, the daughter en- 
tered the room, to a very quick march beaten by the heart 
of our ardent hero. 

But, though this accompaniment was so very quick, the 
entrance of Anna Cooke was calm, slow, and dignified, as 
usual. She received the party very kindly ; and her efforts 
to please them while they stayed seemed as natural and un- 
constrained as if the business of pleasing had been a habit 
of her life. Jane’s apprehensions of being eaten up soon 
subsided, and the gentle Mary had the satisfaction of bring- 
ing about, by some inadvertent remark of her own, an ani- 
mating conversation between her brother and the lovely 
hostess. We say animated conversation, but it must not 
be supposed that it was a lively one. The animation of 
the parties arose from their mutual earnestness of charac- 
ter. The sanguine temperament thus readily throws itself 
into the breach, and identifies itself with the most passing 
occasions. It was in this way that Beauchampe found him- 
self engaged in a brief and pleasant discussion of one of 
those topics, arising from books, in which the parties may 
engage with warmth, yet with hit endangering the harmony 


108 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


of the conference; even as a wild strain of music — from 
the rolling, rising organ, or the barbaric drum and Sara- 
cenic trumpet — will make the heart thrill and throb again, 
with a sentiment of awe which yet it would be very loath 
not to have awakened. 

Beauchampe was perfectly ravished, the more particularly 
as he did not fail to see that Miss Cooke was evidently not 
insensible to the spirit and intelligence which he displayed 
in his share of the dialogue. The presence of the sisters, 
fortunately, had the effect of controlling the brother in the 
utterance of those passionate and personal feelings which 
had been forced, as it were, from his lips the day previous. 
Love was unspoken by either, and yet, most certainly, love 
was the only thought of one, and possibly, of both. But 
love is the most adroit of logicians. He argues his case 
upon the data and criteria of a thousand far less offensive 
tdpics. Religion, law, politics ; art, science, philosophy ; 
all subjects he will discuss as if he had no other purpose 
than to adjust their moot points and settle their vexing 
contrarieties. The only misfortune is that when he is done 
— nay, while he is going on, one is apt to forget the sub- 
ject in the orator. Special pleader that he is, in what a 
specialty all his labors terminate ! 

When Anna Cooke and Orville Beauchampe separated 
that day, what of the argument did they remember ? Each 
readily remembered that the speaker was most eloquent. 
Beauchampe could tell you that the fair debater was never 
so beautiful in person, so high and commanding in intellect 
before ; and when Anna Cooke Was alone, she found herself 
continually recalling to her mind’s eye, the bright aspect 
and beaming eyes of the enthusiastic young lawyer — so 
earnest, so seemingly unconscious of himself, as he poured 
forth the overflowing treasures of a warm heart, and a 
really well-stored and naturally-vigorous intellect. She 
saw too, already, how deeply she had impressed herself 
upon his fancy. Beauchampe’s heart had no disguises 


DEVELOPMENTS OF PASSION. 109 

Strange feelings rose into her own. Strange, terrible 
thoughts filled her mind ; and the vague musings of her 
wild and scarcely coherent spirit, formed themselves into 
words upon her tongue. 

“ Is not this an avenger !” she muttered. “ Is not this 
an avenger sent from heaven ! I have striven in vain. I 
am fettered. It is denied to me to pursue and sacrifice the 
victim. Oh ! surely woman is the image of all feebleness. 
These garments are its badges ; and sanction obstruction 
and invite injustice. As I am, thus and here, what hope is 
there that vengeance can be mine ? The conquest of this 
enthusiastic youth will afford me the freedom that I crave, 
the agent that I need, the sacrifice for which only I dream 
and pray. With him the victim may be sought and found 
wherever he hides himself, and this crushed heart shall 
once more rise in triumph — this trampled pride be uplifted 

— the pangs of this defrauded and lacerated bosom bo 
soothed by the sacrifice of blood ! 

“ And why should it not be so ? Why ? Do I live for 
any other passion ? Do I entertain any other image in my 
soul ? What is love, to me, and fear, and hope, and joy — 
the world without and the world within — what but a dark 
abode in which there is but one light — one star, red and 
wild — a planet rising fiery at the birth of hate, only to set 
in blood, in the sacrifice of its victim. Here is one comes 
to me bearing the knife. He is mine, so declare his looks 

— he loves me, so equally speak his words and actions. 
Shall 1 not use his love for my hate ? What is his love to 
me? Ilis love — ha! ha! ha! His love, indeed — the 
love of a young ambitious lawyer. Is it not rather the 
perfection of vengeance that I should employ one of the 
tribe for the destruction of another ! 

“ But no — no ! why should I involve this boy in my fate ? 
Why should 1 make him my instrument in this wild pur- 
pose ? He is not of the same brood, though of that brother- 
hood. This youth is noble. He is too ardent, too impetu- 


110 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


ous, for a deliberate design of evil. His soul is generous. 
He feels — he feels! — he, at least, is no masked, no cold- 
blooded traitor, serpent-like, crawling into the open and 
warm heart to beguile and sting. 

“ No — no! I must not wrong him thus. He must be 
spared this doom. I must brood over it alone, and let the 
fates work it as they may. Though, were he but half less 
ardent — could I suspect him of a baseness — I should whet 
the dagger, and swear him to its use ! Yes — at any altar, 
for that sacrifice — though that altar be the very one on 
which I am the sacrifice — though it bear the name of love, 
and hold above it his cruel and treacherous image !” 

Such were the frequent meditations of the passionate 
and proud woman. Her mother prompted these not un- 
frequently without intending it. She, with the sagacity of 
an ancient dealer, soon discovered the sort of coin which 
Beauchampe was disposed to bring with him into Love’s 
crowded market-place. She readily detected, in the unso- 
phisticated manners of Beauchampe, the proper material 
on which it would be easy for her daughter to work. The 
intense, inflammable, impetuous nature was such as a single 
glance of those dark, bright eyes — a single sentence from 
that mellow, yet piercing, sweet, yet deep-toned voice — 
might light up with inextinguishable flame — might prompt 
with irresistible impulses. Of course, the old lady had no 
knowledge of the one absorbing passion which had become 
a mania in the breast of her daughter. Her calculations 
went no farther than to secure a son-in-law — but of this 
the daughter had no thought, only as it might be necessary 
to effect other objects. Her purpose was to find an avenger, 
if anything ; and, even for this object, we have seen, from 
her spoken meditations, she was yet too generous to seek 
for such an agent in one so unselfish, so true-hearted as 
Beauchampe had appeared. 

But the rough-hewing of events was not to be left either 
to mother, or daughter, however resolved and earnest might 


DEVELOPMENTS OE PASSION. 


lli 


be the will which they severally or mutually exercised. 
The strongest of us, in the most earnest periods of our 
lives, move very much as the winds blow. It may hurt our 
vanity, but will do our real interests no harm to declare, 
that individual man is mostly, after all, only a sort of moral 
vane on the world’s housetop. If you find him stationary 
for any length of time be sure it is less from principle than 
rust. 


112 


BEAUCHAMP*. 


CHAPTER IX. 

LOVE AND LAW. 

“ Denial, which is death. 

Hangs on her lips, and from her heart to mino 
Sends the great .agony, like an icy shaft!” 

The progress of Beauchampe, though in one respect noth- 
ing, was yet not inconsiderable as bringing about the devel- 
opment of his own tendencies and affections. In the re- 
sults which his desires might have suggested to his mind, 
there had been no sort of progress. He was pretty much 
where he was at the beginning. His pursuit, begun in his 
instincts, and seemingly from mere curiosity, had, however, 
brought him to a better consciousness of the meaning of 
that sudden fancy which had prompted him to dream of a 
heart-ideal at the moment when love seemed to be the re- 
motest thing from his thoughts. He now began to feel that 
a fate had been busy to bring about the acquaintance be- 
tween himself and the mysterious stranger. He had iden- 
tified the vague image of his fancy with the fascinating 
woman whose charms, for the first time, seemed to put his 
passions into activity. Yet his thoughts gave him but little 
encouragement. He had no such vanity as could persuade 
him that his interviews with the object of his fancy had 
been productive of any good to his cause ; and his moments 
of calmer reflection only taught him additional humility, as 
he felt how very wide was the gulf that lay between his 
hopes, his claims, and pretensions, and the very remarka* 


LOVE AND LAW. 


113 


able woman whom he had begun to worship. lie did not 
deceive himself for a moment with the idea that he had 
made, or could make, any impression upon her. He felt 
that he had not done so ; and while he was as eager in his 
desires as ever, he was full of despondency as he examined, 
with all the calmness possible to his nature, the very slen- 
der foundation for his hopes. The startling character of 
the scene which we have just described — her terrible dec- 
laration, so evidently earnest — the mysterious secret of her 
life, ihe existence of which it declared, but did riot eluci- 
date — all seemed to determine against the possibility of 
any progress with a nature at once so wild, so powerful, 
and so utterly unlike the ordinary characteristics of the sex 
as usually found in society. 

But perseverance, where passion is the impelling power, 
will sooner or later work its way to the object which it 
seeks. It will bring about the issue, certainly, though it 
may be disappointed in its results. If hate be intense on 
the ore hand, love, in the case of a determined will, is no 
feeble opponent ; at all events, the one may be as tenacious 
of its object as the other : and the fiery passions of Beau- 
cham'pe, if less matured and less concentrative than the hate 
which raged in the bosom of Anna Cooke, were yet in 
hourly training under the guidance of a fate, which, as she 
was now beginning to think, contemplated the union of both 
forces, for the gratification of at least one of the seemingly 
hostile passions ! 

We pass over numerous small details in the progress of 
the parties, which were yet, in some degree, important in 
bringing about the general result. They served gradually 
to break down the barriers, of a social kind, which had hith- 
erto stood up as a wall between the two families. The 
impetuous nature of Beauchampe had succeeded in tearing 
away those which had been set up by his own. He was 
too much the object of warm affection with mother and sis- 
ters to suffer them very long to maintain their hostilities to 


114 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


his obvious desires ; and, without exactly apprehending that 
her son designed anything further than the communion with 
a young woman whose intellect had won the admiration of 
his own — without thinking it certain, or even probable, 
that this communion would ripen into love — for Mrs. Beau- 
champe felt that there was something repulsive to herself 
in the character of Anna Cooke, and naturally concluded 
that the same qualities would exercise antagonistic effects; 
to passion on the part of her son — she at length gave fully 
in to his wishes that there should be a closer intimacy be- 
tween her girls and the beautiful and mysterious stranger.. 

This concession won, the ardent nature of Beauchampe 
pushed his advantages with due celerity and earnestness. 
He suffered no day to escape without some approach to the 
mutual intercourse of the parties ; and, with even pace, Mrs. 
Cooke, and even her daughter, became reconciled to the 
frequent presence of the Beauchampes within their house- 
hold, while the visits of the strangers, though less frequent, 
were now stripped of nearly all constraint. Our young 
lawyer felt that he had compassed a considerable degree 
of ground when he found himself admitted to continual in- 
tercourse with the Cookes, as a friend of the family. Mrs. 
Cooke had some unproductive property, of which she de- 
sired to dispose. She had certain ancient claims, which 
were thought not beyond recovery. There were papers, 
and titles, and letters, which were to be examined profes 
sionally ; and young Beauchampe was duly installed as the 
lawyer of the widow and her daughter. 

Lawyer and lover ! The combination promises rare re 
suits in logic. We shall see what they are to produce 
Usually, the one sinks himself in the other character. Let 
the client understand that this is not certainly the fact, and 
lie considers his case in bad condition. The lover will be 
apt to kill the lawyer, in his opinion. He will get out of 
such ddubtful custody before next term, if this be possible 
At iiil eVeiits, he $ill desire assistant counsel. 


LOVE AND LAW. 


115 


We doubt if Beauchampe ever fully surrendered his mind 
to the law-matters of Mrs. Cooke. We somewhat fear that 
he considered all the business a bore. At all events, he 
hurried over its details, whenever they conferred on the sub- 
ject, with what Mrs. Cooke soon began to think a singular 
want of regard for her interests. 

But neither did he seem to make much progress with his 
own. Though he turned away from the mother to the 
daughter, leaving the law to shift for itself, yet love with 
the latter was an interdicted subject. 

But when, and for how long, will love stay interdicted ? 

Can you answer, gentle reader ? What is your experi- 
ence of the matter ? As easily curb the tides, chain the 
winds, arrest the flight of birds in their season — do any 
other impossible thing — with the subtlest agencies of life 
and nature working with an indomitable will, and under the 
impulse of a law the secret of which no man can claim to 
fathom. 

Beauchampe was under interdict of law. 

Love was under interdict on Beauchampe's lips. 

But love could not be put under interdict in Beauchampe’s 
heart — 

And the wild blood of Beauchampe was of such fiery im- 
pulse, that it never yet had bowed submissively to law. 

What curbed him for a while, and made him submissive, 
in appearance, to the interdict, was awe, veneration, the 
humility of his hope, the fear lest he should prejudice and 
lose his case by precipitation. In brief, for the first time 
in his life, he called in Prudence to his aid. 

Now, when Love makes an ally of Prudence, it becomes 
a very formidable power. It was the only ally who could 
possibly have served Beauchampe in his approaches to Anna 
Cooke. It disarmed her vigilance in the first place ; it in- 
creased his own ; and sap may enable one to overcome the 
fortress which resists the most terrible assault. 

Time wrought favorably for Beauchampe. It enabled 


116 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


him to show his resources of mind and character — above 
all, the ingenuous and impulsive, the frank and faithful, the 
solicitous and confiding, the dutiful and considerate — 
wAicli, in spite of his fiery passions, were the predominant 
virtues of his mind and heart. 

Anna Cooke gradually took pleasure in seeing him. She 
found him both abler in intellect and gentler of disposition 
than she had fancied him at first. His amenities, prompted 
as much by his fears of the loss of her favor, had greatly 
controlled the natural audacity of his blood, and Ihe pru- 
dence of his approach gradually served to quiet her suspi- 
cions. She somewhat relaxed in that vigilant watch of eye 
and ear which she had maintained over his first approaches. 
She no longer looked for the equivocal in his speech ; no 
longer encountered the doubtful with asperity. The way 
was gradually smoothing for the approach of other powers. 
The small pioneer virtues, which Passion so cunningly em- 
ploys under the guidance of that great engineer Prudence, 
were doing wonders in the cause of a despot, who, as yet, 
judiciously kept his standard out of sight. 

Anna Cooke was really getting to be quite pleased when 
Beauchampe looked in of a morning, or strolled in to tea, 
unaccompanied by his sisters, of an evening. 

It is one of the natural arts of Love to excite the sensi- 
bilities into the most commanding activity, even while it 
refines and purifies the tastes ; to subdue all the sharpnes- 
ses of character, even as it subdues the asperities of tone 
and accent in the voice ; to throw into the eyes a mild, per- 
suasive expression of entreaty and solicitude ; a hesitating 
tenderness into the utterance ; and, above all, so certainly, 
and even suddenly, to elevate the mind, that even the vul- 
gar nature and the inferior understanding become modified 
and enlarged under its influence — and Ignorance itself 
seems, as if under inspiration, to receive such an increase 
of intelligence, that its speech shall rarely declare its defi 
ciencies. 


LOVfc ANt) LA\V. ii? 

Now, though by no means a wise, learned, or greatly- 
gifted youth, Beauchatnpe was neither vulgar nor ignorant. 
Still, at the beginning of his intercourse with Anna Cooke, 
he was full of those salient points of character and manner 
which exhibit the lack of that refining attrition of society 
which no course of education can well supply. And some 
of these saliences grated upon Anna Cooke on his first 
interview with her. 

But, in a single week, all this was altered. Love carries 
with it those instincts of good taste, those solicitous sensi 
bilities, that refinement becomes inevitable under its pres- 
ence ; and without his own consciousness, perhaps, though 
it did not escape hers, the bearing, the whole carriage and 
deportment, tone and manner, of Beauchampe, underwent 
rapid transition. From the rough, sturdy, confident rustic 
— almost insolent in his independence, and very determined 
upon his objects — indifferent to, if not wholly ignorant of, 
the higher polish of the social world — he grew, in a single 
week, into the subdued and quiet gentleman, heedful always 
of the sensibilities of those whom he addressed, and ten- 
derly considerate of the claims and rights of others. At a 
single bound he became a gentleman ! 

And that word “ gentleman” — how few have ever weighed 
and properly taught its due significance ! To acquire this 
character is one of the first processes by which we make a 
Christian. Certainly, no man can be a Christian who is 
not first a gentleman. And this involves no idle lesson for 
the clergy. Among writers, old Middleton, the dramatist, 
seems to have been almost the only one who seems fully to 
have caught a just conception of the character so as to 
define it. Incidentally, he gives a happy array of the vir- 
tues — not merely qualifications, graces, and manners — 
essential to the gentleman. His allusion to the Man Christ 
will only be misconstrued by blockheads : — 

“ Patience, my lord ! why, ’tis the soul of peace ; 

Of all the virtues, his nearest kin to Heaven , 


118 


BEAUCIiAMEE. ' 


It makes men like the gods. The best of men, 

That e’er wore earth aboiit him, was a sufferer ; 

A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit, 

The first true gentleman that ever breathed /” 

Beauchampe, under the tuition of Love, was making great 
progress toward becoming a gentleman. Love first made 
him gentle ; Prudence then brought in the other allies, Pa- 
tience, Forbearance, Conciliation, Solicitude — humble vir- 
tues, serving-brothers of the household, whose permitted 
tendance will make of the humblest dwelling — 

“ A happy home, like heaven !” 

Beauchampe’s improvement, under the new course of tui- 
tion — under this new, potent, and almost unsuspected 
teacher — was wonderfully rapid. A few weeks had made 
the most surprising changes in bearing, sentiment, charac- 
ter, nay, in the very expression of his face. His features 
— and the fact belongs to the studies of the psychologist in 
especial, as significant of what the refining arts did for the 
Greek soul and character — his very features, though not 
wanting in a certain nobleness before, had become softened, 
sweetened, spiritualized as it were, in the wonderful prog- 
ress which the gentler virtues had been making in his heart. 

The result did not escape the attention of Anna Cooke. 
She was not insensible to the singular and interesting 
change in his features since the time when she first saw 
him. It surprised even her, who was ordinarily so indif- 
ferent to external aspects. It gradually affected her own 
feelings, as it conveyed an exquisite compliment to her own 
influence. She saw the beginning of this improvement of 
the young man, in the birth of his devotion to herself. She 
began to feel a certain sympathy with the progress of a sen- 
timent which was so powerful and at the same time so un- 
obtrusive, so little claiming or aspiring. Not that she 
dreamed to encourage it. How could she ? That was im- 
possible ! So she said to herself, whenever she thought 
upon the subject. We have seen her expressed reflections. 


LOVE aND LaW. 11) 

She renewed them. Her mind was as unmoved as ever. ^ 
The changes, whatever they might be, were confined wholly 
to her tastes and sensibilities. But these, after all, are the 
true provinces in which true love is decreed to work ! 

Her mental opinions and resolves had undergone no 
change. Nay, they grew stronger, by a natural tendency, 
as her interest in the young man increased. She resolved 
that lie should not be sacrificed ; and this resolve was the 
necessary parent of another. She could never give encour- 
agement to the object of her present lover. She could ' 
never be his wife. No ! she already felt too much inter- 
ested in the youth, to use her own energetic language, ut- 
tered in midnight soliloquy, “ to dishonor him with her 
hand !” She was not conscious of the sigh which fell from 
her lips when this determination was spoken. She was not 
conscious, and consequently not apprehensive, of the prog- 
ress which a new passion was making in her heart. That 
sigh had its signification, but this, though it fell from her 
own Ups, was inaudible to her own ears. 

Labi, ring under this unconsciousness with regard to her 
own feelings, it was perhaps not so great a stretch of mag- 
nanimity, v'm her part, to resolve that Beauchampe should 
not be permitted to serve her brooding hatred, or to share 
in her secret sorrows. Such was her determination. 

One day, he grew more warm in his approaches. Cir- 
cumstances favored his object, and the topics which they 
had discussed, on previous occasions, insensibly encouraged 
this. Suppressing Ms eagerness of manner, putting as much 
curb as he could on the impatient utterance which was only 
too habitual to him where his feelings were excited, he 
strove, in the most deliberate form of address, to declare 
his passion, and to solicit her hand. 

“ Mr. Beauchampe,” she said firmly, “ I thank you. I 
am grateful for this proof 01 your regard and attachment ; 
and, in regretting it, I implore you not to suspect me of 
caprice, or a wanton desire to exercise the power which 


120 


BEAtTCHAMPE. 


your unhappy preference confers on me. Nor am I insert 
sible to your claims. Were it possible, sir, that I could 
ever marry, I know no one to whom I would sooner intrust 
my affections than to you. But there is an insuperable bar- 
rier between us — not to be broken — not to be overpassed. 
Never! never! never!” 

“ Do not speak thus, dearest Miss Cooke. Spare me 
this utterance. What is the barrier, this insuperable bar- 
rier, not to be broken, not to be overpassed ? Trust me, it 
can be broken, it can be passed. What are the obstructions 
that true love can not remove ?” 

“ Not these, not these ! It is impossible, sir. I do not 
deceive myself — I would not deceive you — but I assure 
you, Mr. Beauchampe, that the truth I declare is no less 
solemn than certain. I can ’never listen to your prayer — 
l can never become your wife — no, nor the wife of any 
man ! The barrier which thus isolates me from mankind 
is, I solemnly tell you, impassable, and can not be broken.” 

“Suffer me to strive — it is not in me that vour objec- 
tions arise ?” 

“No! but—” 

“ Then suffer me to try and overcome this difficulty — 
remove this barrier.” 

“ It will be in vain, sir ; you would strive in vain.” 

“ Not so ! declare it — say in what it consists — and, be- 
lieve me, if such talents as are mine, such toils as man can 
devote, with such a reward awaiting him as that which my 
success would, secure for me, can effect an object, I must 
succeed. Speak to me freely, Miss Cooke. Show me this 
obstacle — ” 

“ Never ! never ! There, at once, the difficulty rises. I 
can not, dare not, reveal it. Ask no more, I entreat you. I 
should have foreseen this, and commanded it otherwise. I 
have suffered your attentions too long, Mr. Beauchampe : 
for your own sake, let me forbid them now. They can 
never come to good. They can have no fruits. Here, 


LOVE AND LAW. 


121 


before Ileaven, which I invoke to hear me, I can never 
be — ” 

“Stay! — do not speak it !” he exclaimed, passionately 
catching her uplifted hand, and silencing, by his louder ac- 
cent, the word upon her lips. 

“Stay, Miss Cooke! be not too hasty — be not rash in 
this decision ; I implore you, for your sake and mine. Hear 
me calmly — resume your seat but for a few moments. 1 
will strive to be calm ; but only hear me.” 

lie led her to a seat, which she resumed with that air 
of recovered dignity and stern composure which shows a 
mind made up and resolute. He was terribly agitated, in 
spite of all his efforts at composure. Ilis eyes trembled, 
and his lips quivered, and the movements of his frame were 
almost convulsive. But he also was a man of strong will. 
But for his youth, he had been as inflexible as herself. He 
recovered himself sufficiently to speak to her in tones sur- 
prisingly coherent, and with a degree of thoughtfulness 
which showed how completely a determined will can con- 
trol the utterance even of extraordinary passion. 

“ Hear me, Miss Cooke. I can see that there is a mys- 
tery about you whicli I do not seek to penetrate. You 
have your secret. Let it be so still. I love you, deeply, 
passionately, as I never fancied it was possible for me or 
any man to love. This passion rends my frame, distracts 
my mind — makes it doubtful if I could, endure life in its 
lenial. I have seen you only to worship you. Lost to me, 
I lose faith as well as hope. I no longer know my divini- 
ties ; I no longer care for life, present or future. Do not 
suppose I speak wildly. I believe all that I say. It must 
be as I say it. Now, hear me : to avoid this fate, I am 
willing to risk many evils — dangers that might affright the 
ordinary man under the ordinary feelings of man. You 
spoke the other day of having but a single passion, which 
was not love ! — 55 

“Hate!” she interrupted him to say. 

6 


122 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ Hate, it was — and that gave birth to another not un 
like it.” 

“ Revenge ! yes, revenge !” such was her second inter- 
ruption. He proceeded: — 

“ I understand something of this. You have been 
wronged. You have an enemy. I will seek him. I will 
be your champion — die for you if need be — only tell me 
that you will be mine !” 

“ Will you, indeed, do this ?” 

She rose, approached him, laid her hand on his arm, and 
looked into his eyes with a keen, fixed, fixing, and fascina- 
ting glance, like that of a serpent. Her tones were very 
low, very audible, but how impressive ! They sunk not into 
his ear, but into his”heart, and a cold thrill followed them 
there. Before he could reply, however, she receded from 
him, sunk again into her seat, and covered her face in her 
hands. He approached her. She waved him off. 

“ Leave me, Mr. Beauchampe — leave me, now and for 
ever. I can not hear you. I will not. I need not your 
help. You can not revenge me.” 

“ I will ! I can ! Your enemy shall be mine. I will pur- 
sue him to the ends of the earth ! But give me his name.” 

“ No, you shall not!” she said with apparent calmness. 
“ Thus I reject your offer — your double offer. I will not 
wrong your generosity — your love, Beauchampe — by a 
compliance with your prayer. Leave me now; and, oh, 
come not to me again ! I would rather not see you. I 
feel for you — deeply, sincerely — but, no more. Leave me 
now — leave me for ever.” 

He sunk on his knee beside her. He clasped her hand, 
and carried it passionately to his lips. She rose, and with- 
drew it from his grasp. 

“Rise, Beauchampe,” she said, in subdued but firm ac- 
cents. “ Let it lessen your disappointment to know that, if 
I could ever be the wife of any man, you should have the 
preference over all. I believe your soul to be noble, I do 


LOVt? AND t iA W. 


12B 


not believe you would be guilty of a baseness. Believing 
this, I will not abuse your generosity. You are young. 
You speak with the ardor of youth ; and with the same 
ardor you feel, for the moment, the disappointments of 
youth. The same glow of feeling will enable you to over- 
come them. You will forget me very soon. Let me en- 
treat you, for your own sake, to do so. Henceforward, I 
will assist you in the effort. I will not see you again.” 

A burst of passionate deprecation and appeal answered 
this solemn assurance, but did not affect her decision. He 
rose, again endeavored to grasp and detain her hand, but 
she broke away with less dignity of movement than usual ; 
and, had not the eyes of the youth been blinded by his own 
weaknesses, he might have seen the big tear in hers, which 
she fled precipitately only to conceal. 


124 


BRAUCHAMPfe. 


CHAPTER X. 

HOPE DENIED. 

From this period Miss Cooke studiously withheld her 
presence from the eyes of her infatuated lover. In vain did 
he return day after day to her dwelling. His only recep- 
tion was accorded by the mother, whose garrulity was con- 
siderably lessened in the feeling of disappointment which 
the course of her daughter necessarily inspired in her mind. 
She had had her own plans, which, as she knew the firm- 
ness of her daughter’s character, she could not but be con- 
vinced were effectually baffled. To her Beauchampe de- 
clared himself, but from her he received no encouragement 
except that which was contained in her own consent, which, 
as he had already discovered, did not by any means imply 
that of the one object whose consent was everything. The 
old woman pleaded in secret the passion of the young man, 
but she pleaded fruitlessly. Her petition became* modified 
into one soliciting only her daughter’s consent to receive 
him as before ; and to induce this consent the more readily 
Beauchampe pledged himself not to renew the subject ot 
love. 

But Anna Cooke now knew the value of such pledges. 
She also knew, by this time, the danger to herself of again 
meeting with one whose talents and worth she had already 
learned to admire. The feeling of prudence grew stronger 
as her impressions in his favor were increased. This con 


HOPE DENIED. 


126 


tradiction of character is not of common occurrence. But 
the position of Anna Cooke was not only painful but a 
peculiar one. To suffei her affections to become involved 
with Beauchampe was only to increase her difficulties and 
mortifications. She felt that it would be dishonorable to 
accept him as a husband without revealing her secret, and 
that revealed, it would be very doubtful whether he would 
be so willing to take her as his wife. This was a dilemma 
which she naturally feared to encounter. 

We do not say, that she did not also share in those feel- 
ings of disappointment and denial under which Beauchampe 
so greatly suffered. The sadness increased upon her coun- 
tenance, and softened its customary severity. She felt the 
darker passions of her mind flickering like some sinking 
candle-flame, and growing daily more feeble under the an 
tagonist feeling of another of very different character. 
The dream of hate and vengeance which for five years had 
been, however baneful to her heart, a source of strength 
to her frame, grew nightly less vivid, and less powerful 
over her imagination ; and, hopeless as she was of love, 
she trembled lest the other passions which, however strange- 
ly, had yielded her solace for so long a time, should abandon 
her also. 

For such a nature as that of Anna Cooke, some strong 
food was necessary. There must be some way to exercise 
and employ those deep desires and earnest spiritings of her 
mind, which else would madden and destroy her. It be- 
came necessary to recall her hates, to renew her vows and 
prayers of vengeance, to concentrate her thoughts anew 
on the bloody sacrifice which she had so long meditated in 
seci’et. 

But this was no easy task. The image of Beauchampe 
came between her eyes and that of the one victim whose 
destruction alone she sought. The noble, generous, de- 
voted countenance of the one, half obliterated the wily, 
treacherous visage of the other. The perpetual pleadings 


126 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


of the mother contributed to present this oostacle to her 
mind. 

To escape from this latter annoyance, and, if possible, 
evade the impression, which, in softening her feelings, had 
obliterated some of her hates, she renewed a practice 
which she had for some time neglected. She might be 
seen every morning stealing from the cottage and taking 
her way to the cover of the adjacent forests. Here, hid- 
den from all eyes, she buried herself in the religious soli- 
tude. What feelings filled her heart, what fancies vexed 
her mind, what striving forms of love and hate, conflicted 
in her fancy, we may perhaps conjecture ; but there, alone, 
save with the images of her thought, she wasted the vacant 
hours ; drawing her soul’s strength from that bitter weed 
of hate, the worst moral poison which the immortal soul 
can ever cherish. 

With Beauchampe the sorrow was not less, and there 
was less to strengthen ; but that little was not of so dan- 
gerous a quality. He felt the pang of denial, but the bit- 
terness of hate had never yet blighted the young, green 
leaves of his youthful affections. He was unhappy, but 
not desperate. Still he could not but see, in the course 
taken by Anna Cooke, a character of strength and inflex- 
ibility, which rendered all prospects of future success, 
which looked to her, extremely doubtful. There had been 
no relaxing in her rigor. The mother, whose own sym 
pathy with his cause was sufficiently obvious, had shown 
its hopelessness, even when she most encouraged him to 
persevere. Perseverance had taught him the rest of a hard 
lesson — and the young lover, in his first love, now trembled 
to find himself alone ! 

Alone ! and such a loneliness. The affections of mother 
and sisters no longer offered solace or companionship to his 
heart. They no longer spoke to his affections. Their 
words fell upon his ears only to startle and annoy ; their 
gentle smiles were only so many gleams of cold, mocking 


HOPE DENIED, 


127 


moonlight scattered along the dreary seas of passion in 
his soul. He felt that he could not live after this fashion, 
for he had still a hope — a hope just sufficiently large to 
keep him doubtful. Anna Cooke had declared that her 
scruples were not to him. The bar which severed her from 
him was that which severed her from man. But for that — 
such was her own assurance — “ he should be preferred to 
all others whom she knew.” 

That bar ! What was it ? Beauchampe was not suffi- 
ciently experienced in the history of the passions, to con- 
jecture what that obstacle might be. He fancied, at the 
utmost, that her affections might have been slighted ; he 
knew — but chiefly from books which are not always cor- 
rect in such matters — that women did not usually forgive 
such an offence. Betrothed, she might have been deserted 
— perhaps with insult — and this, he readily thought, might 
amply justify the fierce spirit of vengeance which she 
breathed. Or, it might be that she had been born to for- 
tune, and had been wronged and robbed, by some wily vil- 
lain, of her possessions. Something of this he fancied he 
had gathered from the garrulous details of the mother. 

But, even were these conjectures true, still there was 
nothing in them to establish such a barrier as Anna Cooke 
insisted on, between his passion and herself. Blinded as 
he was by his preference, and, in his own simple innocence 
of heart, overlooking the only reasonable mode by which 
such a mystery could be solved, the truly wretched youth 
became hourly more so. Failing to find his way to her 
presence, he resorted to that process of pen, ink, and paper, 
which the Heloise of Pope insists was designed by Heaven 
expressly for the use of such wretches as Beauchampe and 
herself, and his soul poured itself forth upon his sheet with 
all the burning effluence of the most untameable affection. 
Page after page grew beneath his hands-— every line a keen 
arrow from the bended bow of passion, and shot directly 
at tne heart. To borrow the phraseology of the old Span 


128 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


ish teachers of the estilo culto , if his tears wet the paper, 
the heat of his words dried it as soon. Beauchampe spoke 
from his soul and it penetrated to hers. But though she 
felt and suffered, she was unmoved. Her reply was firm 
and characteristic : — 

“ Noble young man, leave me and be happy. Depart 
from this place ; seek me, see me, think of me, no more ! 
Why should you share a destiny like mine ? Obey your 
own. It calls you elsewhere. If it be just to you, yours 
will be lofty and honorable ; if not, at least it will spare 
you any participation in one so dreary as is mine. Go, I 
implore you, and cease to endure the anguish which you still 
inflict. Go, forget me, and be happy. Yet, if not, take 
with you as the saddest consolation I can give, the assu- 
rance that you leave behind you a greater suffering than 
you bear away. If, as you tell me, the arrow rankles in 
your heart, believe me there is an ever-burning fire which 
encircles mine. I have not even the resource of the scor- 
pion, not, at least, until my ‘ desperate fang’ has done its 
work on another brain than my own. Then, indeed, the 
remedy were easy ; at all events where life depends upon 
resolution, one can count its allotted minutes in the articu- 
lations of a drowsy pulse. Once more, noble young man, 
I thank you ; once more 1 implore you to depart. I will 
not send you my blessings — I will not endanger your 
safety by a prayer of mine. Yet, I could pray for you, 
Beauchampe. I believe you worthy of the blessings, and 
perhaps you would not be injured by the prayer, of one so 
desolate as I am!” 

This letter, so far from baffling his ardor, was calculated 
to increase it. He hurried once more to the dwelling of 
Mrs. Cooke ; but only to meet a repulse. 

“ Tell him, I can not and will not see him !” was the 
inflexible reply ; and the mother was not insensible to the 


HOPE DENIED. 129 

struggle which shook the majestic soul and form of the 
speaker in uttering these few words. 

In a paroxysm of passion, most like frenzy, Beauchampe 
darted from the dwelling. That day he rambled in the 
woods, scarcely conscious of his course, quite unconscious 
of any object. The next, taking his gun with him by way 
of apology, he passed in the same manner. And thus for 
two days more. 

Somewhat more composed by this time, his violent mood 
gave way to one of a more contemplative character ; but 
the shadows of the forest were even more congenial to the 
disconsolate than the desperate. They afforded him the 
only protection and companionship which he sought in either 
of his moods. Here he wandered, giving himself up to the 
dreary, conviction which swells every young man’s heart, 
when first loving, he seems to love in vain, and when the 
sun of hope seems set for him for ever ; and henceforth, 
earth was little more than a place of tombs — the solemn 
cypress, and the Druid mistletoe, its most fitting decora- 
tions ; while, under each of its deceptive flowers, care, and 
pain, and agony, lay harbored in the forms of gnat, and 
wasp, and viper, ready to dart forth upon any thoughtless 
hand that stoops to pluck the beauty of which they might 
fitly be held the bane. 

But, it was not Beauchampe’s destiny, as Anna Cooke 
had fancied, to escape from hers. Imvain had she striven 
to save him from it. He was one not to be saved. Mark 
the event. To escape him — perhaps dreading that her 
strength might fail, at some moment, to resist his praye. 
to see and speak with her ; and tired of her mother’s con- 
stant pleading in behalf of her suitor — she fled from the 
house, and, as we have seen, stole away, day by day, to 
lonely places, dark, gloomy, and tangled, such as the 
wounded deer might seek out, in his last agonies, in which 
to die in secret. 

We have seen already what has been the habit of Bean- 

0 * 


130 


BEAUCHAMP. 


champe in this respect. His woodland mnsings had not 
been without profit. Assured now of the hopelessness of 
his pursuit from the stern and undeviating resolution which 
the lady of his love had shown, at every attempt which he 
made to overcome her determination, he, at length, with a 
heavy heart, concluded to adopt her counsel, and to fly from a 
scene in which disappointment had humbled him, and where 
all of his most acute feelings were kept in a state of most 
painful irritation. But, before this, he again addressed her 
by letter. His words were brief : — 

“ I shall soon leave this place. I shall obey you. Yet, 
let me see you once more. Youchsafe me one look upon 
which my heart may brood in its banishment. Let me see 
that dear image — let me hear that voice — that voice of 
such sweet sorrow. Do not deny me this prayer. Do not ; 
for in leaving you, dearest, but most relentless woman, I 
would not carry with me at the last moment, to disturb the 
holier impression which you have made upon my soul, a 
feeling of the injustice of yours. With a heart hopeless 
and in the dust, I implore you. Do not reject my prayer. 
Do not deny me — let me once more behold you, and I will 
be then better prepared to rush away to the crowded haunts 
of life, or it may be the more crowded haunts of death. 
Life and death ! ah ! how naturally the words come to- 
gether. You have rendered their signification little in my 
ears. You, you only. Yet I ask you not now to reverse 
the doom. Is not my prayer sufficiently humble ! I ask 
you not to spare, not to save ; only to soothe the pangs of 
that departure which you command, and which seems little 
less than death to me. On my knees, I implore you. Let 
me see you but once — once more — let me once more hear 
your voice, thongh I hear nothing after. ,, 

To this, the answer was immediate, but the determina- 
tion was unchanged. It said : — 


HOPE DENIED. 


131 


ii I may seem cruel, but I am kind to you. Oh ! believe 
aie. It will console me under greater suffering than any 
1 can inflict, to think that you do believe me. I am a 
woman of wo — born to it — with no escape from my des- 
tiny. The sense of happiness, nevertheless, is very strong 
within me. Were it not impossible that I could do you 
wrong, I could appreciate the generous love you proffer 
me. I feel that I could do it justice. But terror and death 
attend my steps, and influence the fortunes of all who share 
in mine. I would save you from these, and — worse! You 
need not to be told that there are worse foes to the proud, 
fond heart, than either death or terror. Fancy what these 
may be, and fly from me as from one whose touch is conta- 
gion — whose breath is bondage — whose conditions of com- 
munion are pangs, and trials, and — shame ! Do not think 
I speak wildly. No, Beauehampe, you little dream with 
what painful inflexibility I bend myself to the task of say 
ing thus much. Spare me and yourself any further utter- 
ance. Go, and be happy. You are yet young, very young. 
Perhaps you know not that I am older than you. Not 
much — yet how much. Oh! I have so crowded moments 
with events — feelings, the events of the heart — that I am 
grown suddenly old. Old in youth. I am like the tree 
you sometimes meet — flourishing, green at the top — while 
in the heart sits death and decay, and, perhaps, gloomier 
tenants beside. These I can not escape — I can not survive. 
But you have only one struggle before you. You have suf- 
fered one disappointment. It will disturb you for a while, 
but not distress you long. You will find love where you 
do not seek it — happiness, which you could never find with 
me. Go, Beauehampe — for your sake, I deny your prayer. 
I will not see you. Do not upbraid me in your soul, nor by 
your lips. Alas ! you know not how hard is the struggle, 
which 1 have, to say so much. You know not from what a 
bondage this struggle saves you. My words shall not call 
you back. No looks of mine shall beguile you. Be you 


m 


flEAUCfrAMPfc. 


free, Beauchampe — free and happy ! If you could but gudss 
the temptation which I overcome — the vital uses which 
your love could be to me, and which I reject, you would 
thank me — oh ! how fervently — and bless me— would I 
could say, how justly ! Farewell ! Let it be for ever 
Beauchampe ! Farewell ! farewell for ever !” 


THE TERRIBLE SECRET. 


m 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE TERRIBLE SECRET. 

Beauchampe sat, sad and silent, in a corner of one low 
cnamber in his mother’s cottage. The family were alt 
present. There was an expression in every face that sym 
pathized with his own. All were sad and gloomy. A 
painful reserve, so strange hitherto in that little family of 
love, oppressed the spirits of all. They were aware of the 
little success which followed his course of wooing. They, 
perhaps, did not regret the loss so much as the disappoint- 
ment of one whom they so much loved. With the excep- 
tion of little Mary Beauchampe, Anna Cooke had not 
taken captive the fancy of either of the ladies. Jane posi- 
tively feared and disliked her, with the natural hostility 
which a person of light mind always entertains for one of 
intensity and character. Mrs. Beauchampe’s objections 
were of another kind ; but she had seen too little of their 
object, and was too willing to promote her son’s wishes, to 
attach much importance to them. She had derived them 
rather from the casual criticisms of persons en passant, 
than from anything which she herself had seen. 

It would have been no hard matter for Beauchampe, had 
he been successful in his suit, to reconcile all the parties 
to his marriage. That he was unhappy in the rejection of 
his hand, made them so ; and the feeling was the more 
painful as the event had made Beauchampe cfetenmne to 


BEAUCHAMPS. 


131 

depart on the ensuing day. He felt the necessity of doing 
so. Active life, the strifes of the politician, the triumphs 
of the forum, were at hand, offering him alternatives, if not 
atonements. In the whirl of successive performance, and 
in scenes that demand promptitude of action, he felt that he 
could alone dissipate the spell, or at least endure its 
weight with dignity, which the charms of Anna Cooke 
had imposed upon him. His resolution was declared ac- 
cordingly. 

It may be supposed that the distress of the little family 
made the scene dull. Much was said, and much of it was 
in the language of complaint. Poor Mary wept with a 
keen sense of disappointment, more like that of her brother 
than any one. Jane muttered her upbraidings of the 
“ scornful, high-headed, frowsy Indian Queen, who was too 
conceited to see that Orville was ten thousand times too 
good a match for such as she — while Mrs. Beauchampe, 
with the usual afflicting philosophy of age which has sur- 
vived passion, discoursed largely on the very encouraging 
text which counsels us to draw our consolation from our 
very hopelessness. Pretty counsel, with a vengeance ! 
Beauchampe thought it so. 

The torturous process to which these occasional remarks 
and venerable counsels subjected him, drove him forth at an 
early hour after dinner. Once more he traversed the woods 
in moody meditation. He inly resolved that he should see 
them the last time. With this resolve he determined to 
pay a personal visit to the spot where, at his coming, he 
had obtained the first sight of the woman, who, from that 
moment, had filled his sight entirely. He followed the 
sinuous course of the woods, slowly, moodily, chewing the 
cud of sad and bitter thought alone. 

His passion was in its subdued phase. There is a mo- 
ment of recoil in the excited heart, when the feelings long 
for repose. There is a sense of exhaustion — a dread of 
further strife and excitement, the very thought of which 


THE TERRIBLE SECRET. 


135 


makes us shudder ; and the one conviction over all which 
fills the mind, is that we could willingly lay ourselves down 
in the shady places, none near, and sleep — sleep the 
long sleep, in which there are no such tortures and tu- 
mults. 

Such were the feelings of Beauchampe, and thus languid, 
from this recoil, in the overcharged sensibilities, he went 
slowly forward, with a movement that denoted quite as 
much feebleness as grief. 

He was already buried in the thick woods — he fancied 
himself alone — when, suddenly, he heard a pistol-shot. 
He started, with a sudden recollection of a like sound, 
which had attracted his ears on his first approach to the 
same neighborhood. The coincidence was at least a strange 
one. 

He now determined to find out the practitioner. He 
paused for a few moments, and looked about him. He was 
not exactly sure of the quarter whence the sound proceed- 
ed ; but he moved forward cautiously, and at a venture. 
Suddenly he paused ! He discovered, at a distance, the 
person of the very woman whom he had been so long seek- 
ing — -she whose obduracy denied him even the boon of a 
last look and farewell accent. 

His first impulse was to rush forward. A second and 
different impulse was forced on him by what he saw. To 
his astonished eyes she bore in her hands a pistol. He 
watched her while she loaded it. He saw her level it at a 
tree, and pull the trigger with unhesitating hand. The 
bark flew on every side, betraying, by the truth of her 
aim, at a considerable distance, the constancy of her prac- 
tice. 

Beauchampe could contain himself no longer. He now 
rushed forward. A faint cry escaped her as she beheld 
him She dropped the pistol by her side, clasped and cov- 
ered her face with her hands, and staggered back a few 
paces. 


136 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


But, before Beauchampe reached her, she had recovered, 
and, picking up the pistol, she came forward. Her eye 
sparkled with an expression which showed something like 
resentment. Her voice was abrupt and sharp. 

“ You rush on your fate !” she exclaimed. “ Why, 
Beauchampe, do you thus pursue me, and risk your own 
destruction ?” 

“ At your hand, it is welcome !” he exclaimed, mistaking 
her meaning. 

“ I mean not that /” she replied. 

“ But you inflict it !” 

“ No ! no ! 5> impatiently. “ I do not. I have prayed 
against it — would spare you that and every risk ; but you 
will it otherwise ! You rush on your fate ; and if you 
dare, Beauchampe — mark me! if you dare — it is at your 
option. Heretofore, I have striven for you , and against 
myself; but you have forced yourself upon my privacy — 
you have sought to fathom my secrets — and it is now 
necessary that you should bear the penalty of forbidden 
knowledge !” 

“ Have 1 not supplicated you for these penalties ? Ah ! 
what pain — inflicted by your hand — would not be pleas* 
ure !” 

“You love me! — I believe you, Beauchampe; but the 
secret of my soul is the death-blow to your love ! Ah ! 
spare me ! — even now I would have you spare me. Go — 
leave me for ever ; press no farther into a mystery which 
must shock you to hear, shame me to speak, and leads — 
if it drives you not hence with the speed of terror — leads 
you to sorrow and certain strife, and possibly the crudest 
doom.’ , 

“ Speak ! I brave all ! I am your bondsman, your slave. 
Declare the service : let me break down these barriers 
which divide us.” 

He caught her hand passionately in his as he spoke, and 
pressed it to his lips. She did not withdraw it. 


fHE TERRIBLE SECRET. 


137 


“ Beauchampe !” she said, with solemnity, fixing her 
dark, deep-glancing eyes upon his face— “ Beauchampe ! 
I will not swear you! You shall hear the truth, and 
still be free. Know, then, that you clasp a dishonored 
hand !” 


BEAUCHAMP JL 


UlH 


CHAPTER XII. 

THE VOW OF VENGEANCE. 

The terrible words were spoken. The effect was in- 
stantaneous. He dropped the hand which he had grasped. 
A burning flush crimsoned the face of the woman ; an in- 
stant after, it was succeeded by the paleness of death. 

“I knew it!” she exclaimed, bitterly, and with cruel 
keenness of utterance. “ I knew that it would come to 
this. God ! this is thy creature man ! In his selfishness 
he destroys — in his selfishness he shames us. He pries 
into our hearts, to declare their weakness — to point out 
their spots — to say, ‘ See how I can triumph over, and 
trample upon !’ ” 

“Anna!” exclaimed Beauchampe, in husky accents — 
“ speak not thus — think not thus. Give me but a moment’s 
time for thought. I was not prepared for this.” 

The young man looked like one in a dream. A ghastly 
expression marked his eyes. His lips' were parted; the 
muscles of his mouth were convulsed. 

“ Nay, sir, it needs not. Your curiosity is satisfied. 
There is nothing more.” 

“ Yes,” he exclaimed, “ there is !” 

“ There is !” she answered promptly. “ To clasp the 
dishonored hand, and take from its grasp the instrument 
of its vengeance. In a few words, Beauchampe, this hand 
can only be yours under one condition. Dishonored though 


THE VOW. OF VENGEANCE. 


139 


it is, I tell you, sir, never yet did woman subject man to 
more terrible conditions as the price of her love.” 

“ I take the hand,” he said, “ ere the condition is spoken.” 

“ No, Beauchampe, that can not be. You shall never 
say that I deceived you. As I shall insist on the fulfilment 
of the condition, so it is but fair that you be not hooded 
when you pledge yourself to its performance.” 

She withdrew the hand, which he offered to take, from 
his contact. 

“ This dishonored hand is pledged to vengeance on him 
who blackened it with shame. Hence its practice with the 
weapon of death. Hence the almost daily practice of the 
last five years. Here, in these woods, I pursue a sort of 
devotion, where Hate is the deity — Vengeance the officia 
ting priest. I have consecrated my life to this one object. 
He who takes my hand must adopt my pledge — must de- 
vote himself also to the work of vengeance !” 

He seized it, and took the weapon from its grasp. With 
the pistol lifted to heaven, he exclaimed : — 

“ The oath ! — I am ready !” 

Tears gushed from her eyes. She spoke in subdued ac- 
cents : — 

“ Five long years have I toiled with this delusive dream 
of vengeance ! But what can woman do ? Where can she 
seek — how find her victim? Think you, Orville Beau- 
champe, that if I could have met my enemy, I would have 
challenged the aid of man to do this work of retribution ? 
In my own soul was the strength. There is no feminine 
feebleness of nerve in this eye and arm ! I should have 
shot and struck — ah! Christ!” 

She sunk to the ground with a spasm, which was the nat- 
ural effect of such passions working on such a temperament. 
The desperate youth knelt down beside her in an agony of 
equal passion and apprehension. He drew her to his breast, 
he glued his lips to her cheeks* scarcely conscious that she 
was lifeless all the while. 


140 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


Her swoon, however, was momentary only. She recov 
ered even while he was playing the *madman in his fond- 
ness. 

Refusing his assistance, and pushing him from her, she 
staggered up, exclaimed, in piercing, trembling accents 

“ What have I done ? what have I said ?” 

“ Given me happiness, dearest,” he replied, attempting 
to take her hand. 

“No, Beauchampe,” she answered, “let me understand 
myself before I seek to understand you. I am scarcely 
able, though !” — and, as she spoke, she pressed her hands 
upon her eyes with an expression of pain. 

“ You are still sick !” he observed apprehensively. 

“ I am in pain, Beauchampe, not sick. I am used to 
these spasms. Do not let them alarm you. They are not 
deadly, and, if they were, I should not consider them dan- 
gerous. I know not well w*hat I have said to you, Beau- 
champe, before this pain ; but as 1 never have these attacks 
unless the agony of mind becomes too intense for one to 
bear and live, I conclude that I have told you all. You 
know my secret — my shame!” 

“ I know that you are the noblest-hearted woman that 
ever lived !” he exclaimed rapturously. 

“ Do not mock me, Beauchampe,” she answered mildly. 
“ Speak not in language of such extravagance. You can 
not speak too soberly for my ears, you can not think too 
soberly for your own good. You have heard my secret. 
You have forced me to declare my shame ! You had no 
right to this secret. Was it not enough that I told you 
that the barrier was impassable between us ? Did I not 
swear it solemnly ?” 

“ It is not impassable.” 

“ It is!” 

“ No !” he exclaimed with looks and accents equally de- 
cisive, “ this is no barrier. You have been wronged — 
your confidence has been abused. That I understand. I 


tHE vow of Vengeance. 


141 


Care not to know more. I believe you to be all that i& 
pure and honorable now ; and, in this faith, I am all yours. 
In this faith I pray you to be mine.” 

“ Becauchampe, this is not all ! Mere love, though it be 
such as yours — simple faith, though so generous and con- 
fiding — these do not suffice. The food is sweet, but it has 
little nutriment. My soul is already familiar with higher 
stimulants. It needs them — it can not do without them. 
[ do not ask the man who makes me his wife, to believe 
only that I can be true to him — and will! — I demand 
something more than a confidence like this, Beauchampe : 
my husband must avenge my dishonor. This is the condi- 
tion of my hand. Dishonored as it is, it has a heavy price, 
fie must devote his life to the work of retribution. To 
this he must swear himself.” 

“ I am already sworn to it. The moment which revealed 
your wrong, bound me as your avenger. You shall only 
point to your enemy — ” 

“ Ah, Beauchampe, could I have done so, I should not 
have needed to stain your hands with his blood. But he 
eludes my sight. I hear nowhere of him. He is as if he 
nad never been. 

“ His name!” said Beauchampe.. 

“ You shall know all,” she replied, motioning him to a 
seat beside her on the trunk of a fallen tree. “ You shall 
know all, Beauchampe, from first to last. It is due to you 
that nothing should be withheld;” 

“ Sparc yourself, dearest,” said Beauchampe tenderly. 

Tell me nothing, I implore you, but the name of your 
enemy, and what may be necessary for the work of ven- 
geance.” 

“ I will tell you all . It is my pride that I should not 
spare myself. It is due to my present self to show that I 
am not blind to the weaknesses of my former nature. It 
is due to what I am , to convince you that I can never agair 
be what I have been. 0 Beauchampe ! I have meditated 


142 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


often and sadly, since I have known you, the necessity of 
making this revelation. At our first meeting, my heart 
said to myself, ‘ The love by which I was betrayed has at 
length sent me an avenger!’ I saw it in your instant 
glances — in the generous earnestness of your looks and 
tones — in the fervent expression of your eye — in the 
frank, impetuous nature of your soul ! But I said to my- 
self 

“ 4 1 will deny myself this avenger. I will reject the in- 
stinct that tells me he is sPnt as one. Why should I involve 
this noble young man in a fate so desperate and sad as 
mine ? It shall not be !’ With this resolve, I strove against 
you. Nay, Beauchampe, I confess to you farther, that, 
even when my will strove most against you, my heart was 
most earnest in your favor. With my increasing regard 
for you, grew my reluctance to involve you in my doom. 
The conflict was close and trying ; and then, when the strife 
in my mind was greatest, I meditated what I should reveal 
to you. I went over that long and cruel memory in the 
deep silence of these woods — in the deeper silence of mid- 
night in my chamber : I could not escape from the stern 
necessity which compelled the remembrance - of those mo- 
ments of bitterness and shame. By frequent recall, they 
have been revived in all their burning freshness ; every 
art of the traitor — the blind steps by which I fell — the 
miserable mockeries which deluded me — and the shame 
which, like a lurid cloud," dusk and fiery, has ever since 
hung before my eyes ! All this I can relate — his crime 
and my folly — nor omit one fraction which is necessary to 
the truth.” 

* But why tell all this, dearest? Let it be forgotten — 
let all be forgotten, except the name of the villain whom it 
is allotted me to destroy.” 

“ Forgotten ? It can not be forgotten ! Nay, more, it is 
a duty to remember it, that the vengeance may not sleep. 
Beauchampe, I have lived for years on this one thought. 


THE VOW OP VENGEANCE. 


148 


Dy recalling these bitter memories, that thought was fed. 
Do not persuade me to forget them. You know not how 
much of life depends on the sustenance which thought de- 
rives from this copious but polluted fountain. Deprive me 
ct this sustenance, and I perish. Deny me to declare all, 
and I can speak nothing. I can not curb my nature when 
I will ; and where would you gather the fuel of anger, 
should I barely say to you that one Alfred Stevens — an 
artful stranger from a distant city — found me a simple, 
vain child among the hills, and, practising on my vanity, 
overcame my strength ? This would serve but little in 
rousing that fierce fire of hate within you which sometimes, 
even in my own bosom, burns quite too faintly to be effect- 
ual. No, no ! you shall witness the progress of the crimi- 
nal. You shall see how he spun his web around my path 
— my soul! — by what mousing cunning he contrived to 
pull down a wing whose feeblest fancy, in those- unconscious 
days, was above the mountains, and striving ever for the 
clouds. You shall see the daily records of its spasms, 
which my misery has made. To feel my struggle, you must 
share in it from the first.” 

He took her hand in his, and prepared to listen. 

“You will feel my hand tremble,” said she; “the flush 
may suffuse my cheek ; for, oh ! do not suppose I tell this 
tale willingly. No ! I can not help but tell it. An instinct, 
which I dare not disobey, commands me ; and truly, when 
I think of the instinct which told me that you viould come 
— made you known to me as the avenger from the first mo- 
ment when I saw you — and has thus forced you, as it were, 
in my own despite, upon my fearful secret — I almost feel 
that there is a divine, at least a fated compulsion, in the 
mood which now prompts me to tell you all. It is a neces- 
sity. I feel it pressing upon me as a duty. It is like that 
Fate which coerced the ancient mariner into the report of 
nis marvellous progress, and compelled the listener to hear. 
It must be told ; and you, Beauchampe, can not help but 


144 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


hear. A power beyond mine own lias willed it, and there 
fore you are here now. It chains us both. It wills that I 
should speak, and speak nothing but the truth. I can ev.n 
suppress nothing. I am not able to control my own utter* 
ance. May the same power endue me with the strength to 
speak the history of my bitter, bitter shame !” 

And, in truth, Beauchampe, like herself, was under a 
spell. He could not have torn himself away under any 
conditions, or with any impulse. He was fastened to the 
spot — not by her arts, for she sternly rejected any help of 
art, save that which naturally belonged to her own remark- 
able genius — not by the charms of her beauty, for her face 
now had more of terror in it than beauty — not by any sym- 
pathy which might arise from pity, for, as he looked into 
the sombre grandeur of her eyes, and the stern power of 
soul, and will, and mind, which declared itself in every 
feature of her countenance, in every action of her form, ho 
felt that awe, not pity, was the most natural sentiment 
which she inspired. 

Under the spell he sat beside her. Under a like spell — 
the imagination, in both, being the Prospero, the master 
of the magic wand — she spoke. And how — the first cho- 
king effort at utterance being overcome — how clearly, sim- 
ply, sternly, she laid bare the whole cruel history, even as 
we have already told it— nothing suppressed, nothing ob- 
scured ; no idle apologies for weakness offered — no excuses 
urged in behalf of sinful impulses. She spared herself in 
nothing. She laid herself bare to discovery, to keen analy- 
sis, to the most critical inspection. Governed, as she felt 
or fancied, by some supernatural influence, there was a ter- 
rible earnestness, an unequivocal intenseness and directness, 
in all she revealed, that would have left the most captious 
attorney at a loss for the opportunity to cross-examine. 
There was no attempt at glozing artifice, at adroit insinua- 
tion or suggestion, by which to soften the darker colors — 
to relieve the doubtful — to conceal what had been her real 


THE VOW OF VENGEANCE 


Kb 

errors, weaknesses, and vicious desires. All the character- 
istics of her soul — its follies, faults, foibles, vices — were 
all made apparent: but through all, equally apparent, was 
the proud spirit, falling chiefly through pride, the noble 
nature, the ingenuous ambition, the lustrous and winged 
genius ! 


SEA UC II AMPA 




CHAPT R XIII. 

THE BETROTHAL. 

“ I drink of the intoxicating cup, 

And find it rapture. Yet, methinks I feel 
As if a madness mingled with the sweet, 

And dashed it with a bitter.” 

What a hush for a moment hung over the forest when 
she ceased to speak ! 

The story was ended. 

For a few moments, Beauchampe sat immoveable, as if 
slowly recovering from a spell. Then suddenly he shook 
himself free, started up with a cry of mingled joy ana. pain, 
and clasped her in his wild embrace. 

His passion had undergone increase, *xe vas no longer 
master of his pulses. Her superior will nad already made 
itself felt in all the sinews of his soul. Every beat and 
bound of his heart was full of the exquisite fascination. 

She extricated herself from his grasp. Her breathing 
came with effort. She pressed her hand upon hei side, as 
if with a sudden sense of pain ; then looked up, and met 
his eager glance with eyes which were so fixed, so glassily 
stern, that he looked alarmed, and clasped her hands in 
his own. 

• She was, in truth, deadly pale — but, oh, how strong! 

“ Fear nothing,” she said, in a whisper 5 “ it is nothing. 
I shall soon be well.” 

And a brief silence ensued between them, he gazing still 
witli apprehension into her eyes. 


THE BETROTHAL. 


117 


“ Look not thus, Beauchampe. I am better now. The 
pain is gone. I am used to it. It always comes with any 
great excitement, and this to-day has been a terrible one. 
I feared I should not have strength for it. Thank God, it 
is over — and — and — I am better now.” 

And she laughed hysterically. 

Anna Cooke was wonderfully strong, but she was yet a 
woman. She had overtasked herself. She sank, a mo- 
ment after, in a fainting-fit, upon the sward. 

Beauchampe was terrified. lie called her name, and re- 
ceived no answer. He ran off to a well-remembered brook- 
let, some two hundred yards distant, over which a gourd 
was suspended from a tree. He hurried back with it full 
of water, and found her recovering. She drank freely, 
bathed her face and forehead in the liquid, and felt re- 
lieved. 

u And now, Beauchampe — now that you have heard all 

— now that you see and understand the full nature of the 
conditions imposed upon you — the fearful nature of the 
penalty — the crime, and its terrible consequences — I re- 
lease you from your pledge! Be free! Go — leave me ! 
I would not have your young and generous soul burdened 
with the sting, the sin, the agony, and the resolve, of mine !” 

This was said, how mournfully, but with what sincerity ! 

— with that utter self-abandoment which denotes the recoil 
and the subsidence of powerful and now-exhausted energies ! 

“ Oh ! how can you speak thus !” he answered reproach- 
fully. “ I would not be released. I ask not even respite. 
Your cause is mine — your wrongs ! I feel them all ! Your 
vengeance — I have sworn to accomplish it. It is now my 
passion not less than yours. Nay, more, I would have you 
dismiss it from your soul ! I would have it exclusively my 
own !” 

“ And you are still willing, burdened with this poor 
wreck of youth, and virtue, and beauty — and with this ter- 
rible necessity — to undergo the consciousness of the world’s 


148 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


mock — nay, to see its skinny pointing finger, and hear its 
venomous tongue, as it mutters, while I pass, the cruel 
story of my shame !” 

“ I will make that story yet a memorial of virtuous ven- 
geance, to be remembered in Kentucky when we are both 
in the dust !” was the vehement answer, while the eyes of 
the speaker flashed fire, and his hand was outwaved as if 
challenging the whole world’s voice and ear. He con- 
tinued : — 

“ If that story is to be told again, Margaret Cooper — 
for so, this once, will I call you — it shall sound as an omi- 
nous voice of terror, speaking doom and sudden judgment 
to the cold-blooded profligates who pride themselves on the 
serpent conquest over all that is blessing and beautiful in 
the world’s Eden !” 

The tears rolled down her cheeks. She had not thus 
wept before — never once had such tears covered her 
cheeks even in the moments of her bitterest remorse and 
suffering. 

“Do not weep !” he said ; “ I can not bear to see you 
weep.” 

“ It is for the last time,” she answered, almost prophet- 
ically. 

“ What, indeed, had she to do with tears ? They t could 
not speak for passions, and such an agony as hers. Then, 
timidly, he laid one hand upon her wrist, while the other 
crept about her waist. And she shuddered. lie felt the 
convulsive shiver, and withdrew his grasp. He whis- 
pered : — 

“ You are now to be mine — mine — you remember !” 

“ Alas ! for you, Beauchampe, that it is so. It is not too 
late ! You are still free to go. It is a ruin — not a heart, 
that I can give you !” 

“ Be it so ! The ruin shall be more precious to my soul 
than the glory only born to-day. 

“ Leave me now, Beauchampe. Do not seek me again 


HiE Betrothal. 


149 


until to-morrow. I would sleep to-day. I need sleep — 
sleep — more than anything besides* I have not slept once 
since I penned you that letter.’* 

“ Good Heavens! can it be possible? Oh! you must 
sleep. Shall I not see you home at once V 

“ No ! leave me, Beauchampe. I will find my way home 
after awhile. Leave me — will you not !” 

“Yes — but Anna, let me take this weapon. It is mine 
now, remember, not yours ! Here, with this hour, Anna, 
your practice ends — ends with the necessity.” 

“ Take it. Hide it from my sight.” 

He possessed himself of the pistol, which he thrust hur- 
riedly into his pocket, and then suddenly embracing and 
kissing her, he cried : — 

“This, Anna — this — seals every vow, whether of love 
or vengeance !” 

She waved him off, and as he disappeared slowly, she 
hurried still deeper into the wood. What were her medi- 
tations there? Who shall say? They were entertained 
for hours in deepest silence, were mournful, yet of uncer- 
tain character — now marked by a sense of relief which was 
momentary only, and still followed by a great cloud-like 
doubt, and vague, dark terror which seemed to stretch and 
spread over all the prospect. 

And this cloud she could not disperse- — she could not 
penetrate. It was ominous, she fancied, of her future. 

“ Oh, God !” she exclaimed, “ if I have erred — if I have 
covered my soul with a new sin in thus involving this gen- 
erous young man in my fate — in thus binding his soul with 
my own to the blind fury of this wild revenge which I have 
sworn.” 

Strange that she should doubt in this regard. Strange 
that human being in a Christian land should really fancy for 
a moment that God’s sanction should hallow the purposes 
of a bloody vengeance. But, even thus wild and mistaken 
in their supposed sanctions are half the purposes of hu- 


150 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


manity. The disordered judgment, governed by an imagi- 
nation which the blood has wrought up to delirious dreams 
and excesses, can always evoke a sanction for all its pur- 
poses, from some terrible demon wearing the aspect of 
divinity ! 

And this false god whispered his encouragement audibly 
to her senses, until she grew satisfied — calmer — resolved 
— confirmed in all her purposes. 

When she returned home and met her mother, she said, 
as quietly as possible : — 

“ Your wishes are answered, mother. I have seen 
Beauchampe. I have consented to be his wife !” 

“ Have you, indeed, Margaret ! Oh ! I am so glad. He 
is such an excellent young man, and of such a good family. 
Oli ! you will be happy now, I know !” 

u Happy 1” exclaimed the girl with a look of scorn, min- 
gled with surprise. “ How can you fancy that there should 
be happiness for me ?” 

“ And why not, Margaret ? Who knows of what’s done 
and past ?” 

“ He knows ! I have told Beauchampe the whole of my 
history.” 

“ What !” almost with a scream. “ You don’t mean to 
say that you’ve been such a fool as to tell him about what 
happened at Charlemont — about Alfred Stevens ! ” 

“ All ! I have withheld nothing !” 

The old woman threw up her eyes and hands with a sort 
of terror. 

“ And he consents to marry you after all !” 

“ Yes !’ 

“ I don’t believe it will ever come to that! No — noi 
Men are not such fools ! Oh ! Margaret, what could pos- 
sess you to tell him that?” 

“ Truth, justice ! I could do no less. Had I not told 
him, 1 had deserved my fate !” 

She left the room as she said this, and hurried to the sol 


TM BKtitoTHAL. 


151 


itude of her own. The mother, when she was gone, ex- 
pressed her horror and her wonder, at what she deemed 
the insane proceeding of her daughter, in more copious 
language than before. 

“ It’s just like her. She was always different from every- 
body else. Now what woman of any sense would have 
told of such things to the very man that was offering her 
marriage. What a fool — what a fool! If Beauchampe 
comes back, then he’s the fool! But he’ll never come 
again. No — no ! when he’s cooled off, and begun to think 
over the matter, he’ll go with a spur. That a daughter of 
mine should be such a fool. But she don’t take a bit after 
me. All her foolishness comes from her father. Cooper 
was a fool too. He was for ever a-doing, a-thinking, and 
a-saying, things different from everybody else. And he, 
too, would call it truth, and right, and justice ; as if any- 
body had any reason to think of such matters, when it’s a 
clear case of interest and safety a-pinting all the other 
way. Such a fool-daughter as she is ! We’ll see if he 
comes again. And I reckon it’s her only chance ; and 
even if she had another, with as good a man, she’d be doing 
and telling the same thing over again. Such a fool — 
such a fool ! But I’ll put on my bonnet, and go over and 
see the Beauchampes, and see what they’ve got to say 
about it.” 

And she prepared herself ; but just as she was about to 
sally forth, her daughter reappeared, and arrested her at 
the entrance. She had divined her mother’s purposes, know- 
ing something of her usual follies. 

“ Do not go to Mrs. Beauchampe’s, mother.” 

“ And why not, if all’s true that you’ve been telling me ?” 

“ You do not doubt its truth, mother, I know. Why I 
wish you not to go, is for a good reason of my own. I 
must only repeat that you must not go there now. A few 
days hence, mother, and only after some of them have come 
here.” 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


152 

“ All ! I see ! You have your fears too, Margaret, that 
it’s all a flash-in- tli e-pan, and that he’ll be off ; and that’s 
the very reason why I would go. We must clinch the nail 
before it draws.” 

The face of Margaret was full of ineffable scorn. 

“ You must not go, mother. Beauchampe is not to bo 
detained, should he desire to depart, by any argument that 
you can offer ; and if he goes — well ! I have no fear that 
he will go, and if such were really his inclination, I should 
be the first to encourage it. You do not understand either 
of us. Meddle not. You can make nothing — may mar 
everything, and will certainly mortify me! Wait! The 
Beauchampes must now seek you, not you them !” 

The will of the daughter prevailed as usual, though her 
own will remained a grumbling discontent. Margaret, 
having attained her purpose, retired again to her chamber, 
wasting no unnecessary words in answer to the growling 
dissatisfaction, that still seemed inclined to pursue her. 
The old woman had set her mind upon the visit and yielded 
very reluctantly — perhaps would not have yielded but for 
the threat of Margaret, sternly expressed, that if she inter- 
fered one bit in the matter, she would herself break away 
from the engagement. The mother too well knew the im- 
perious nature of the daughter, not to feel the danger of in- 
curring her resentment, after such a warning. She con- 
tented herself with the reflection that: — 

“ Margaret was a fool always, and nothing seemed to 
better her sense. Beauchampe” — she was sure — “ will 
be certain to bolt as soon as he gets cooler and thinks over 
the matter.” 

But Beauchampe did not bolt ! 

When he reached home, he hardly suffered himself to 
enter the house, before he cried out to his mother and sis- 
ters : — 

It’s all settled ! I’m so happy, mother. 0 girls ! all’s 


THE BETROTHAL. 153 

right. 1 sha’n’t leave you now for a long time — perhaps 
never, and we shall all be so happy together.’’ 

“ Why, what’s the matter, Orville ? What has so un- 
settled you ?” demanded the mother. 

“ Do tell us, brother, what’s made you so happy ? What 
has so excited you ?” demanded Jane. 

But Mary, the more sagacious as the more sympathizing, 
said at once, while she flung her arms about the neck of her 
brother : — . 

“ Ah ! J. know ; Anna Cooke has consented !” 

“ She has — she has ! What a good guesser. You are 
my dear little sister. Ah ! Mary understands her brother 
better thar. you all.” 

“ So ! she ha3 consented ?” said the mother, somewhat 
deliberately, “ And did she give you any explanation, 
Orville, of her previous refusal — so stern, so peremptory ?” 

a Yes, Orville, how did she excuse herself? What ex- 
planation did she give ?” demanded Jane. 

“ Explanation !” exclaimed the brother, a cloud suddenly 
covering his brow. “Ay! she gave me full — ample ex- 
planation.” 

“ Well ! what was it ?” 

44 Enough, mother, that it was perfectly satisfactory to 
me. I am satisfied. Let us say no more on that subject. 
You will believe me when I tell you that I am satisfied. 
Further, 1 do not mean to say. She is now mine ! all 
mine ! and I am happy.” 

“ God grant, Orville, that it be so !” answered the mother 
in grave accents. “ Yet these so sudden changes, Orville, 
are strange to me, at least. But I will not cloud your hap- 
piness with a single doubt. I trust in God that she will 
bring you happiness, my son.” 

44 Oh ! never doubt, dear mother. She is a glorious 
creature — noble, beautiful — all that should bring a man 
happiness.” 

Happiness is not a creature of wild impulses and of 

7* 


154 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


great excitements ; nor is the glory of beauty, however un- 
paralleled, nor the fascinations of genius, however power- 
ful, the best guaranty of happiness — which needs sympathy, 
and security, above all things, and loves the shade rather 
than the sun ; longing for quiet not turbulent waters, and 
rather keeping the passions in leash, than goading them into 
perpetual exercise by stimulating means. 

Somehow, the wild joy of Beauchampe did not seem to 
his mother the best guaranty for his happiness There was 
something prescient in the thoughts of the old lady, which 
made her sigh over the unborn future. 


THfi BRIDAL. 


m 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE BRIDAL. 

'Why, look you, sir, I can be calm as Silence 
All the while music plays. Strike on, sweet friend, 

As mild and merry as the heart of Innocence . 

I prithee, take my temper. Has a virgin 
A heat more modest?” — Middleton. 

A vast change had certainly been wrought, within a very 
few hours, in the moods and feelings of Beauchampe. He 
had gone forth weary, dispirited, humbled, hopeless : he 
had returned bounding, wild, excited to enthusiastic meas- 
ures — assured, within himself, of the attainment of every 
mortal desire that was precious. 

But we can not call him a happy man — or one, indeed, 
whose prospect of happiness was very promising. Wo 
would not misuse that word, as we fear that it' is too fre- 
quently misused. It is one the necessity for which is very 
rare in the ordinary progress of society and life. Its abso- 
lute significance is really to be found only in future condi- 
tions. But we need not go into any analysis of its propriety 
in common parlance. Enough that it deludes most people, 
at some period or another in their lives. 

Beauchampe said he was happy — very happy — and he 
believed what he said, and his mother and sisters wished 
to believe, and Mary certainly did believe, quite as fer- 
vently as her brother himself. Certainly, if a man in a 
state of pleasant delirium may be considered happy, then 
Beauchampe was ! 


feEAUCHAtaPfi. 


m 

But happiness is scarcely consistent with any very great 
intensity of passion, excited to sleeplessness in the absorb- 
ing pursuit of a single object, particularly when the condi- 
tion of the conquest implies trials, and struggles, and fears, 
and dangers, the measure of which no mind can compass, 
the end of which no mind can foresee ! 

Beauchampe had won the consent of the woman whom 
he had sought with all the intensity of a first passion. All 
young men find it easy to persuade themselves that such a 
condition must satisfy all the longings of the heart. 

But young men build on the sands, and kindle their fires 
too frequently with dry straw, which blazes fearfully at 
first, but dies out, leaves no warmth, and covers the land- 
scape with blackened stubble and fine ashes. 

Beauchampe was not deceived, in a single respect, by or 
with the woman he had won. She was the very person 
that she appeared and claimed to be. She had concealed 
nothing from him — worn no mask — put on no disguises — 
nay, piercing her own heart, and laying bare its most hid- 
den places, she had shown him, so far as she herself could 
find and understand them, the very motives, moods, inter- 
ests, impulses, of her soul — which had informed her ac- 
tions, and might inform them still — as, perhaps, no woman 
had ever shown them to lover before. If he yet labored 
under any delusion in respect to her, she was not the cause 
of it. Her pride, as well as just sense of his claims, had 
been at pains to strip herself of all things which might be 
calculated to delude. The very secret of her dishonor was 
revealed only because she was sworn to honor. 

And he acknowledged no delusions. He was satisfied — 
as he thought, happy — and at first his joy was a delirium. 
She was the peerless creature, the woman among a world 
of women, such as he had thought her at first. 

But we can not govern or restrain the imperious thought 
which works its way in the brain and soul, secretly, even 
as the mole in the garden ; and we never dream of what is 


THE BRIDAL. 


157 


going on below, even though the loveliest flower in our 
Eden is perishing at the roots. 

After a few days, though Beauchampe still exulted, his 
mother fancied that his mind seemed jaded and wearied, 
his fancy had lost its wing, his eyes were heavy, yet wan- 
dering. He himself was quite unconscious of these exter- 
nal shows of the secret nature, but he too had a conscious- 
ness which disturbed his imagination. The very fact that 
his betrothal was so unlike that of any man of whom he 
had ever heard or read — that it was under such conditions 
— compelled his thought to a serious yet vague exercise of 
study, such as did not well comport with the unreasoning 
confidence which, perhaps, marks the presence of the most 
happy sort of love. Still, as yet, he did not exactly reason 
on the subject. He could not. The mind was exerting 
itself through the imagination, experimentally, as it were, 
sending out feelers into this or that region of the brain — 
sounding them — then withdrawing, to touch some other 
place. 

The effect was, to bring into the otherwise bright atmo- 
sphere which surrounded him the perpetual presence of one 
small but dark and threatening cloud. He rubbed his eyes, 
but it was there. He looked away, but, when he turned 
his glance again upon the spot, it remained, steady and 
threatening as before. 

Was there a Fate hidden in that cloud ? Did it contain 
the evil principle, shadowing his progress, or was it simply 
the presentiment of evil — a benignant warning against tho 
dangers yet wrapped in mystery? Was it the ominous 
sign of that fierce condition of hate which had been pre- 
scribed to him as the condition of love ? Could Love pre- 
scribe such a condition — require such a sacrifice? Was 
it possible for that meek sentiment — so holy, so certainly 
from heaven — so celestial an element in the economy of 
heaven — was it possible for such a sentiment so openly to 
toil in behalf of its most deadly antipathy ? Love laboring 


158 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


for lick. ! \i well might bring a cloud into the moral at- 
mosphere cl fteauchampe’s soul, when he thought of these 
conditions. 

And yet Anna Cooke had really learned to love Beau- 
champe. There is nothing contradictory or strange in 
this. We have painted badly, unless the reader is pre- 
pared for such a seeming caprice in her character as this. 
She is, whatever may be her boast, scarcely wiser than 
when she was eighteen. All enthusiasm and earnestness, 
she was all confidence then. She is so still. Her impres- 
sions are sudden and decided. She sees that Beauchampe 
is generous and noble-minded. She has discerned the loy- 
alty of his character, and the liberality of his disposition. 
She finds him intellectual. Ills frankness wins upon her 
— his unqualified devotion does the rest. She sees in him 
the agent of that wild passion which had kept goading her 
without profit before ; and Love, in reality, avails himself 
of a very simple artifice to effect his purposes. It is Love 
that insinuates to her, 4 Here comes your avenger!’ — and, 
deceived by him, she obeys one passion, when, at the time, 
she really fancies she is toiling in behalf of its antagonist. 

See the further argument — felt, not expressed — of this 
wily logician ! 

He suggests to her that it is scarcely possible that Beau- 
champe will ever be called upon to fulfil his fearful pledges. 
For, where is the betrayer ? For five years had the name 
been unspoken in the ears of his victim ; for five years he 
had eluded all traces of herself and friends. He was gone, 
as if he had not been ; and the presumption was strong that 
he was of some very distant region ; that he would be very 
careful to avoid that neighborhood, hereafter, in which his 
crime had been committed : and as, in equal probability, 
the lot was cast which made this limited scene the whole 
world of Beauchampe's future life, so it followed that they 
would never meet ; that the trial, to which she had sworn 
him, would never be exacted ; and, subdued by time, apd 


THE BRIDAL, 


159 


the absence of the usual excitements, the pang would be 
softened in her heart, the recollection would gradually fade 
from her memory, and life would once more be a progress 
of comparative peace, and probably of innocent enjoyment. 

It is an adroit, and not an infrequent policy of Love, to 
make his approaches under the cover of a flag which none 
is so pleased to trample under foot as he. He knows the 
usual practices of war, and has no conscientious scruples 
in the employment of an. ordinary ruse. The drift of his 
policy was not seen by the mind of Anna Cooke; but it 
was — though less obvious than some of her instincts — not 
the less an instinct. Nay, more certainly an instinct, for it 
was of the emotions ; while those of which she had spoken 
to Beauchampe were nothing more than the suggestions of 
monomania. Her imagination, brooding ever on the same 
topic, was always on the watch to convert all objects into 
its agents ; and never more ready than when Love, coming 
forward with his suggestions, lent that seeming aid to his 
enemy which was really intended for his overthrow. It 
was only when she had become the wife of Beauchampe 
that she became aware of the true nature of those feelings 
which had brought about her marriage. It was after the 
tie was indissolubly knit — after he had pressed his lips to 
hers with a husband’s kiss — that she was made conscious 
of the danger to herself from the performance of the condi- 
tions to which he was pledged. The fear of his danger 
first taught her that it was love, and not the mere passion 
for revenge, which had wrought within her from the mo- 
ment when she first met him. The moment she reflected 
upon the risk of life to which he was sworn, that moment 
awakened in her bosom the full appreciation of his worth. 
Then, instead of urging upon him the subject of his oath, 
she shuddered but to think upon it; and, in her prayers — 
for she suddenly had learned to pray — she implored that 
the trial might be spared him, to which, previously, her 
whole soul had entirely been surrendered. 


100 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


But she prayed in vain — possibly because she had learned 
to pray so lately. Ah ! how easy would be all lessons of 
good — how easy of attainment and of retention — did we 
only learn to pray sufficiently soon ! The habit of prayer 
is so sure to induce humility ! and humility is, after all, and 
before all, one of the most certain sources of that divine 
strength, arising from love and justice, which sustains the 
otherwise falling and fearful world of our grovelling hu- 
manity. 

The wife of Beauchampe prayed beside him while he 
slept. She prayed for mercy. She prayed against that 
fatal oath. Par better — such was her thought — that the 
criminal should escape for ever, than that her husband’s 
hands should carry the dagger of the avenger. She now, 
for the first time, recognised the solemn force, the terrible 
emphasis, in the Divine assurance — “ Vengeance is mine !” 
saith the Lord. She was now willing that the Lord should 
exercise his sovereign right. 

But all this is premature. This change in her heart and 
mind was only now in slow and unsuspected progress. It 
required time, the actual formation of the new ties, the 
actual exercise of the feminine duties in an humble and as 
yet happy household. Up to the moment of her marriage, 
there had been no change in her heart or its purposes, such 
as moved her to any change in the conditions of the mar- 
riage. Far from it. When, on the contrary, the time ap- 
proached, she summoned Beauchampe to a private interview 
the afternoon before the nuptials. They met, by appoint- 
ment, in the same wood where the engagement had been 
made. Her sombre spirit was on her, wrapping her as in a 
pall ; and, at his approach, she said abruptly and sternly : 

“ Beauchampe, the time has come. But it is not too 
late. You are at liberty, even now, to withdraw from 
these bonds. If you will it, Beauchampe, you are free 
from this moment, and shall never hear reproach of 

mm” 


tHE BRIDAL. 1(51 

lie rejected the boon proffered him, with indignant but 
loving reproaches. 

“ Have you summoned me for this, Anna V s 

“ No ! not for this only — in part. It was due to you to 
atford you a last opportunity of escaping the terrible condi- 
tions upon which only can my hand be given. This, you 
know, was my oath. It requires yours. If you persist in 
claiming my hand — swear to avenge its dishonor !” 

And she lifted up her hands in solemn adjuration, and 
he obeyed her ; and there, in that silent solitude, he uttered 
audibly the oath to avenge her shame — to sacrifice her 
seducer, at bloody altars, the moment he should be found ! 

And it was as if the demons of the air which had inspired, 
trooped round to receive, the oath ; for the sky darkened 
above them, even as the vow was uttered, and the awful 
stillness of the wood was as if the spirits were all listening 
breathlessly. 

“ Enough, Beauchampe ! It is done. To-morrow I am 
yours !” 

And, with these words, she left him — no kiss, no em- 
brace, no look or word of tenderness. 

But ho looked for none — expected none. It was not a 
moment, nor were the moods of either suitable, for caresses, 
lie looked up at the cloud as she went from sight, and 
enveloped in it, as he thought, for more than an hour he 
walked that wood, his fancies sublimed with the terrible 
oath which he had taken, and his whole soul shadowed as it 
were with the stately pall of velvet in some great solemnity. 

The marriage followed the next day. The bride was 
calm and very pale, but firm and placid. Beauchampe’s 
eye was eager and bright, and his cheeks flushed with hope 
and triumph. He felt sure that he was happy ; and the 
cloud seemed to disappear from before his sight, and, for 
the moment, his landscape was without a speck. 

Amd, in the sight of his joy, the mother and the sisters 
forgot their apprehension ; and they took the bride to their 


162 


SfiAtfCtfAMtfc. 


hearts as warmly as if they had never felt upon their souls 
the shadow of a doubt. But, even as the bridal vow was 
taken, Fear took the place of Hate in the soul of the bride, 
and she shuddered, she knew not why, at the kiss of her 
husband, which, as it declared the warmth of his passion, 
brought up in dark array before her eyes the images and 
events of terror to which that kis3 had pledged him for 
ever! 


IfME HONEYMOON 


m 




CHAPTER XV. 

THE HONEYMOON. 

" What a delicious breath marriage sends forth. 

The violets bed's not sweeter.” — Middletow. 

“ Oh ! I distrust this happiness ; it seems 
Too exquisite to last. I fancy clouds 
Already gather on the sky of bliss.” — Old Play. 

They were now man and wife. The bond, for weal or 
wo, was indissolubly fastened. But, for the present, we 
must not speak of wo. It did not now seem to threaten 
the happy household, of which Beauchampe was now the 
lord. In the novel joy of his situation, the enthusiastic young 
man lost sight of days and weeks and months. With very 
happiness he grew idle — the mind conquered by the heart. 
Law and politics were alike forgotten. He had no call to 
them at present. He was in a dream — in a dream-land 
like that of Eden, in which toil was a stranger, and care, 
that ever-intriguing toad was kept off by the Ithuriel spear 
of pleasure. He could have mused away life in this man- 
ner — never once conscious of the flight of time — there, 
amid groves of unbroken shade, with the one companion. 
And she — did she share the happiness which she imparted ? 
Did the cruel fate relax in his persecutions ? In the em- 
braces of that fond young heart, did she forget the sting 
and agony of the past — did she lose herself a moment in 
the new dream of a fresh and better existence ? 


BEAUCHAMPS. 


1U4 

It is but reRrfDnnble to suppose that she did. She saiig 
now, and her voice was a very rich and powerful one — 
combining the soul and strength of man with the sweetness 
and freedom of the bird. While her voice, in musing 
thought, subdued by humility to devotion, was full of a 
charming philosophy — social yet imaginative always — 
which would not have been unworthy of the ltps of a divine 
priestess officiating among the oaks of Dodona, her soul, 
aroused by the sympathies of an ear which she wished to 
please, never poured forth strains of such sweet eloquence 
and song. She could improvise both verse and music. She 
resumed her pen and wrote as well as sang ; and her verses 
grew less and less sombrous daily. 

Beauchampe was all happiness. He had found a muse 
and a woman in one ! Surely, they were, neither of them, 
unhappy then ! • 

But the fates were not satisfied, even if their victims 
were forgetful. It was decreed that our hero should be 
awakened from his dream of happiness. One day a letter 
was put into Beauchampe’s hands. He read it with a 
cloudy brow. 

“ No bad news, Beauchampe ?” was the remark of his 
wife, expressed with some solicitude. 

“Yes,” he answered tenderly. “ Yes, for I am forced 
to leave you for awhile. Read.” 

He handed her the letter as he spoke. She read as fol- 
lows : — 

“Dear Beauchampe: — The campaign has opened with 
considerable vigor, and we feel the want of you. The 
sooner you come to the rescue the better. We must put 
all our lieutenants into the field. This fellow, Calvert, is 
said to be doing execution among our pigeons. He is quite 

successful on the stump. At G- he carried everything 

before him, and fairly swept Jenkins and Clemens out of 
sight. He is to address the people at Bowling-Green on 


THE HONEYMOON. 


165 


the 7th, and you must certainly meet us there ; or, shall 
I take you on my way down ? Barnabas comes with me. 
He insists that we shall need every help, and is decidedly 
aguish. He has somehow contrived to make me a little 
apprehensive that we have been too confident, and ac- 
cordingly a little remiss. He reports this man, Calvert, 
as a sort of giant, and openly asserts him to be one of 
the most able, popular orators we have ever had. He 
has a fine voice-, excellent manners, is very fluent, and has 
his arguments at his finger-ends. I can not think that 
I have any reason to fear him whenever I can meet with 
him in person. But this, just now, is the difficulty. The 
difference between a young lawyer in little practice, and 
one with his hands full, is something important. Should I 
not join you on the 6th, you had better go on to the Green. 
He will be there by that time. I will meet you there cer- 
tainly by the 8th ; though I shall make an effort to take the 
stump on the 7th, if I can. Should I fail, however, as is 
possible, you must be there to take it for me, and maintain 
it till I come. Barnabas and myself will then relieve you, 
and finish the game. 

“ Why do we not hear from you ? Whisker-Ben said at 
Club last night that he had heard some rumor that you 
were married or about to be lparried. We take it for 
granted, however, that the invention is his own. Barnabas 
flatly denied it, and even the pope (his nose, by the way, is 
thoroughly recovered) expressed his opinion that you were 
‘no such ass.’ Of course, he suffered neither his own, nor 
my wife, to hear this complimentary opinion. One thing, 
however, was agreed upon among us, viz. : that you were 
just the man, not only to do a foolish thing, but an impol- 
itic one ; and a vote was carried, nem. con ., in which it was 
resolved to inform you that, in ‘ the opinion of this clnb, 
marriage is a valuable consideration.’ A word to,the wise, 
etc. You know the proverb. Barnabas spoke to this sub- 
ject- Whisker-Ben, too, was quite eloquent. ‘ What,’ 


166 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


said he, 4 are the moral possessions of a woman ? I answer, 
bank-notes, bonds, sound stocks, and other choses in action. 
Her physical possessions, I count to be lands and negroes, 
beauty, a good voice, &c. His distinction was recognised 
as the true one by everybody but Zauerkraout, who now 
wears the red hat in place of Finnikin. He thinks that 
negroes should be counted among the moral possessions, 
or, at least, as of a mixed character, moral and physical. 
I will not trouble you with more of the debate than the 
summary. An inquiry was made into your qualities, and 
the chances before you, and you were then rated, and found 
to be worth seventy-five thousand dollars, the interest of 
which, at five per cent., being five thousand dollars, it was 
resolved that you be counselled not to marry any woman 
whose income is less. A certificate of so much stock in the 
club will be despatched you to assist in any future opera- 
tions ; as a friend to yourself, not less than to the club, let 
me exhort you to give heed to its counsels. 4 Marriage is 
a valuable consideration.” Marry no woman whose in- 
come is not quite as good as your own. As a lawyer, in 
tolerable practice, you may fairly estimate your capital at 
thirty or forty thousand dollars. If you have a pretty 
woman near you, before you look at her again, see what 
she’s worth ; and lose sight of her as soon as you can, un- 
less she brings in a capital to the concern, equal to your 
own. Be as little of a boy in these matters as possible. In 
no other, I think, are you likely to be a boy ! Adieu ! If 
you do not see me on the 6 th, start for the Green by the 
7th. I shall surely be there by the 8th. Barnabas sends 
his blessing, nor does the pope withhold his. He evidently 
thinks less unfavorably of you, since his nose has been pro- 
nounced out of danger. 44 Lovingly yours, 

44 J. 0 . Beauchampe, Esq.” 44 W, P. Sharpe. 

The wife read the letter slowly. Its contents struck her 
strangely. It had something iq its tone like that of one 


THE HONEYMOON. 


167 


whom she had been accustomed to hear. The contents of 
it were nothing. The meaning was obvious enough. Of 
the parties she knew nothing. But there was the sentiment 
of the writer, which, like the key-note in music, pervaded 
he performance — not necessarily a part of its material, yet 
giving a character of its own to the whole. That key-note 
was not an elevated one. She looked up. Her husband 
had been observing her countenance. A slight suffusion 
flushed her cheek as her eyes met his. 

“ Who is Mr. W. P. Sharpe,” said she, “ who counsels 
so boldly, and I may add so selfishly ?” 

“ He is the gentleman with whom I studied law — one 
of our best lawyers, a great politician and very distinguished 
man. He is now up for the assembly, and, as you see, 
thinks that I can promote his election by my eloquence. 
What think you, Anna ?” 

“I think you have eloquence, Beauchampe — I should 
think you would become a very popular speaker. You have 
boldness, which is one great essential. You have a lively 
imagination and free command of language, and your gen- 
eral enthusiasm would at least make you a very earnest 
advocate. There should be something in the cause — the 
occasion — no doubt, and- ■” 

She stopped. 

“ Go on,” said he — “what would you say?” 

“ That I should doubt very much whether the occasion 
here” lifting up the letter — “ would be sufficient to stimu- 
late you to do justice to yourself.” 

The youth looked grave. She noticed the expression, 
and with more solicitude than usual, continued : — 

“ I think I know you, Beauchampe. It is no disparage- 
ment to you to say I something wonder how such people as 
are here self-described should have been associates of yours.” 

“ Strictly speaking they were not,” he replied, with 
something of a blush upon his face. “ I know but very lit- 
tle of them. But you are to understand that there is exag- 


168 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


geration — which is perhaps the only idea of fun that our 
people seem to have — in the design and objects of this 
club. It is a lawyers’ society, and Colonel Sharpe insisted, 
the day that I graduated, that I must become a member. 
I attached no importance to the matter either one way or 
the other, and readily consented. I confess to you, Anna, 
that what I beheld, the only night when I did attend their 
orgies, made me resolve, even before seeing you, to forswear 
the fraternity. We do not sympathize, as you may imagine. 
But no more, I fancy, does the writer of this letter sympa- 
thize with them. Colonel Sharpe is willing to relax a little 
from serious labors, and he takes this mode as being just as 
good as any other. These people are scarcely more than 
creatures for his amusement.” 

The wife looked grave but said no more, and Beau- 
cliampe sat down to write an answer. This answer as may 
be supposed, confirmed the story of Whisker-Ben, legiti- 
mated all the apprehensions of the club, and assured the 
writer of the letter that his counsels of “ moral prudence” 
had come too late. He had not only wedded, but wedded 
without any reference to the possessions, such as had been 
described as moral, at least by the philosophers of the fra- 
ternity. 

“ My wife,” said the letter of the writer — “ has beauty 
and youth, and intellect — beauty beyond comparison — and 
a grace and spirit about her genius that seem to me equally 
so. Beyond these, and her noble heart, I am not sure that 
she has any possessions. I believe she is poor ; but really, 
until you suggested the topic, I never once thought of it. 
To me, I assure you, however heretical the confession may 
seem, I care not a straw for fortune. Indeed, I shall bo 
the better pleased to discover that my wife brings me noth- 
ing but herself.” 

The letter closed with the assurance of the writer that 
he should punctually attend at the gathering, and do his 
best to maintain the cause and combat of his frierid, 


THE HONEYMOON. 


169 


“ Is this Colonel Sharpe so very much your friend, Beau- 
champe?” demanded his wife when he had read to her a 
portion of his letter. 

“He has been friendly — has treated me with attention 
as his pupil — has not spared his compliments, and is what 
is called a fine gentleman. I can not say that he is a char- 
acter whom I unreservedly admire. He is a man of loose 
principles — la'cks faith — is pleased in showing his skepti- 
cism on subjects which would better justify veneration ; 
and, of the higher sort of friendships which implies a loy- 
alty almost akin to devotion, he is utterly incapable. Seek- 
ing this loyalty in my friend, I should not seek him. But 
for ordinary uses — for social purposes — as a good com- 
panion, an intelligent authority, Colonel Sharpe would al- 
ways be desirable. You will like him, I think. He is well 
read, very fluent, and though he does not believe in the 
ideals of the heart and fancy, he reads poetry as if he wrote 
it. You, who do write it, Anna, will think better of him 
when you hear him read it.” 

“ Do you know his wife, Beauchampe ?” 

“No — strange to say, I do not. I have seen her; she 
is pretty, but it is said they do not live happily together.” 

“ How many stories there are of people who do not 
live happily together; and if true, what a strange thing it 
is, that such should be the case. Yet, no doubt, they 
fancied, at the first, that they loved one another ; unless, 
Beauchampe, they were counselled by some such club as 
yours. If so, there could be no difficulty in understanding 
it all.” 

“ But with those, Anna, who reject the advice of the 
club ?” 

“ Can it ever be so with them, Beauchampe ? I think 
not. It seems to me as if I should never be satisfied to 
change what is for what might be. Are you not content, 
Beauchampe ?” 

“ Am I not ? Believe me it makes my heart tremble to 
3 


170 


BEJAtJCHAMPE. 


think of the brief separation which this election business 
calls for. Sharpe little knows what a sacrifice I make to 
serve hiln. ,, 

“ And if I read this letter of his aright, he would laugh 
you to scorn for the confession.” 

“ No ! that he should not.” 

“ You would not see it, Beauchampe. You are perhaps 
too necessary to this man. But who is Mr. Calvert — is 
he an elderly man ? — I once knew a very worthy old gen- 
tleman of that name. He too had been a lawyer and was 
a man of talents.” 

“ This is a very young man, I believe ; not much older 
than myself. He does not practise in our counties and I 
have never seen him. Judge Tompkins brings him for- 
ward. You see what Sharpe says is said of him. It will 
do me no discredit to grapple with him, even should he 
fling me.” 

“ Somehow, I think well of him already,” said the wife. 
u I would you were with him , Beauchampe, rather than 
against him. Somehow, I do not incline to this Colonel 
Sharpe. I wish you were not his ally.” 

“ What a prejudice ! But you will think better of the 
colonel when you see him. I shall probably bring him 
home with me !” 

The wife said nothing more, but there was a secret feel- 
ing at her heart that rendered this assurance an irksome 
one. Somehow, she wished that Beauchampe might not 
bring this person to his house. Her impression — which 
was certainly derived from his letter — was an unfavorable 
one. She fancied, after awhile, that her objection was only 
the natural reluctance to see strangers, of one who had so 
long secluded herself from the sight of all ; and thus she 
rested, until Beauchampe was about to take his departure 
to attend the gathering at Bowling-Green, and then the 
same feeling found utterance again. 

“ Do not bring home any friends, Beauchampe. I am 


THE HONEYMOON. 


171 


not fit, not willing to see them. Remember how long I 
have been shut in from the world. Force me not into it. 
Now we have security, husband — I dread change of any 
kind as if it were death. Strange faces will only give me 
pain. Do not bring any !” 

“ What ! not Colonel Sharpe ! I care to bring no other. 
I could scarcely get off from bringing him. At least I must 
ask him, Anna ; and, I confess to you, I shall not be dis- 
pleased if he does decline. The probability is that he will 
for his hands are full.” 

She turned in from the gate, saying nothing further on 
this subject, but feeling an internal hope, which she could 
not repress, that this would be the case. Nay, somehow, 
she felt as if she would prefer that Beauchampe would bring 
any other friend than this. 

How prescient is the soul that loves and fears ! Talk of 
your mesmerism as you will, there are some divine instincts 
in our nature which are as apprehensive of the coming 
event, as if they were already a part of it. It is as if they 
see the lightning-flash which informs the event, long before 
the thunder-peal which, like the voice of fame, comes slowly 
to declare that all is over. 


172 


BEAUCHAMPS. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

STUMP PATRIOTS. 

Were we at the beginning of our journey, instead of 
being so far advanced on our way, it would be a pleasant 
mode of wasting an hour, to descant on the shows and 
practices of a popular gathering in our forest country. The 
picture is a strange, if not a startling one. Its more pron> 
inent aspects must, however, be imagined by the reader 
We have now no time for mere description. The more de- 
cidedly narrative parts of our story are finished. As we 
tend to the denouement, the action necessarily becomes 
more rapid and more dramatic. The supernumeraries cease 
to thrust in their lanthern-long images upon us. This is no 
place for meditative philosophers ; and none are suffered to 
appear except those who do and suffer , with the few subor* 
dinates which the exigency of the case demands, for dispo- 
sing the draperies decently, and letting down the curtain. 

Were it otherwise — were not this disposition of the parts 
and parties inevitable — it would afford us pleasure to give 
a camerarobscura representation of the figures, coming and 
going, who mingle and dance around the great political 
caldron during the canvass of a closely-contested election : 

“ Black spirits and white, 

Red spirits and gray ; 

Mingle, mingle, mingle, 

You that mingle may/ 

And various indeed was the assortment of spirits that 
assembled to hear liquid argument— -and drink it too — ou 


STUMP PATRIOTS. 


173 


the present Occasion. Fancy the crowd, the commotion, 
the sharp jest and the wild laughter, most accommodating 
of all possible readers, and spare us the necessity of dila- 
ting upon it. We will serve you some such scene, with 
all its lights and shadows, on some other more fitting oc 
casion. 

Something, however, is to be shown. You are to sup 
pose a crowd of several hundred persons, shrewd, sensible 
people enough, after their fashion — rough-handed men of 
the woods, good at the plough and wagon — masters of the 
axe, tree-quellers and hog-killers — a stout race, rugged it 
may be, but not always rude — hospitable, free-handed — 
ignorant of delicacies, but born with a strong conviction 
that much is to be known, much acquired — that they are 
the born inheritors of much — rights, privileges, liberties — 
sacred possessions which require looking after, and are not 
to be intrusted to every hand. Often deceived, they are 
necessarily jealous on this subject ; and, growing a little 
wiser with every political loss, they come to their patrimony 
with an hourly-increasing knowledge of its value and its 
peculiar characteristics. Not much learning have they, 
but, in lieu of it, they can tell “ hawk from handsaw” in 
all stages of the wind ; which is a wisdom that your learned 
man is not often master of. You may cheat them once, 
nay, twice, or thrice, for they are frank and confiding ; but 
the same man can not often cheat them ; and one thing is 
certain — that they can extract the uses from a politician, 
and then fling him away, as sagaciously as the urchin who 
deals in like manner with the orange-sack which he has 
sucked. 

Talk of politicians ruling the American people ! Lord 
love you ! where do you find these great rulers after five 
years ? Sucked, squeezed, thrown by, an atom in the dung- 
heap ! Precious few of these men of popular dimensions 
survive their own clamor. Even while they shout upon 
their petty eminences, the world has hurried on and left 


174 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


them ; and thel*e they stand, open-mouthed and wondering ! 
Waking at length, they ask, like the shipwrecked traveller 
on the shore : “ Where am I ? where is my people ?”* My 
people! — ha! ha! ha! There is something worse than 
mockery in that shout. It is my people that speaks, but 
the voice is changed. It is now thy people. The sceptre 
has departed. Ephraim is no longer an idol among them. 
They have other gods ; and the late exalted politician, 
freezing on his narrow eminence, grows dumb for ever — 
stiff, stone-eyed — like the sphinx, brooding in her sinking 
sands, saying, as it were, “ Ask me nothing of what I was, 
for now see you not that I am nothing ?” 

Precious little of such a fate dreams he, the high-cheeked, 
sunburnt orator, that now rallies the stout peasantry at 
Bowling-Green. lie thinks not so much of perpetual fame 
as of perpetual office. He has a faith in office which shall 
last him much longer than that which he professes to have 
in the people. He hath not so much faith in them as in 
their gifts. But he fancies not — not he — that the shouts 
which now respond to his utterance shall ever refuse re- 
sponse to his summons. He assumes a saving exception 
in his own case, which shall make him sure in the very 
places where his predecessors failed. He hath an unctuous 
way with him which makes his faith confident ; and his 
voice thunders, and his eye lightens ; and he rains precious 
drops among them, which might be eloquence, if it were 
not balderdash ! 

“ Who is this man ?” quoth our young hero Beauchampe, 
as he listened to the muddy torrent, which, like some turbid 
river, having overflowed its banks, comes down, rending and 
raging, a thick flood of slime and foam, bringing along with 
it the refuse of nauseous places, and low flats, and swampy 
bottoms, and offal-stalls ! 

The youth was bewildered. The eloquent man was so 

* Years after this was published, even Webster was heard to ask, in this 
very condition of bewilderment, “ Where am 1 to go V* 


STUMP PATRIOTS. 


175 


sure of his ground and auditors — seemed so confident in 
his strength — so little like a doubting giant — that it was 
long before Beauchampe could discover that he was a mere 
wind>bag, a bloated vessel of impure air, that, becoming 
fixed air through a natural process, at length explodes and 
breaks forth with a violence duly proportioned to its noi- 
someness. 

“ This can not be the man Calvert !” soliloquized our hero. 
It was not. But, when the wind-bag wa3 exhausted — * 
which, by a merciful Providence, was at length the case — 
then arose another speaker ; and then did Beauchampe note 
the vast difference, even before the latter spoke, which was 
at once evident between the two. 

“ This must be he !” he murmured to himself. 

He was not mistaken. The crowd was hushed. The 
stillness, after those clamors which preceded it, was awful ; 
but was it not encouraging ? No such stillness had accom- 
panied the torrent-rushing of those beldame ideas and bull 
dog words which had come from the previous speaker, 
Here was attention — curiosity — the natural curiosity of an 
audience about to listen to a new speaker, and already 
favorably impressed by his manner and appearance. 

Both were pleasing and impressive. In person he was 
tall and well made — his features denoted one still in the 
green and gristle of his youth — not more than twenty-five 
summers had darkened into brown the light flaxen hair 
upon his forehead. His eyes were bright and clear, but 
there was a grave sweetness, or rather a sweet, mild gravity 
in his face, which seemed the effect of some severe disap- 
pointment or sorrow. 

This, without impairing youth, had imparted dignity. 
His manner was unostentatious and natural, but very grace- 
ful. He bowed when he first rose before the assembly, 
then, for a few moments, remained silent, while his eye 
seemed to explore the whole of that moral circuit which 
his thoughts were to penetrate. 


1?6 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


He began, and Beauchampe was now all attention. His 
voice was at first very low, but very clear and distinct. 
IJ is exordium consisted of some general principles which 
the subjects he proposed to discuss were intended to illus- 
trate, to confirm, and at the same time to receive their own 
illustration, by the application of the same maxims. 

In all this there was an ease of utterance, a familiarity 
with all the forms of analysis, a readiness in moral con- 
jecture, a freedom of comparison, a promptness of sugges- 
tion, which betrayed a mind not only excellent by nature, 
but admirably drilled by the severest exercise of will 
and art. 

We do not care to note his arguments, or the particular 
subjects which they were intended to elucidate. These 
were purely local in their character, and were nowise re- 
markable, excepting as, in their employment, the speaker 
showed himself everywhere capable of rising to the height 
of those principles by which the subject was governed. This 
habit of mind enabled him to simplify his topic to the un- 
derstanding of his audience ; to disentangle the mysteries 
which the dull brains and rabid tongue of the previous 
speaker had involved in a seemingly inextricable mass ; and 
to unveil, feature by feature, the perfect image of that lead- 
ing idea which he had set out to establish. 

In showing that Mr. Calvert argued his case, it is not to 
be understood, however, that he was merely argumentative. 
The main points of difficulty discussed, he rose, as he pro- 
ceeded, into occasional flights of eloquence, which told with 
the more effect, as they were made purely subordinate to 
the business of his speech. Beauchampe discovered, with 
wonder and admiration, the happy art which had so ar- 
ranged it; and from wonder and admiration he sank to 
apprehension, when, considering the equal skill of the de- 
bater and the beauty of his declamation, he all at once rec- 
ollected, toward the close, that it was allotted to him to 
take up the cudgels and maintain the conflict for his friend. 


STUMP PATRIOTS. 


177 


But this was not a moment to feel fear. Beauchampe 
was a man of courage. His talent was active, his mood 
fiery, his imagination very prompt and energetic. He, too, 
was meant to be an orator ; but he had gone through no 
such school of preparation as that of the man whom he was 
to answer. But this did not discourage him. If he lacked 
the exquisite finish of manner, and the logical relation of 
part with part, which distinguished the address of his oppo- 
nent, he had an irresistible impulse of expression. Easily 
excited himself, he found little difficulty in exciting those 
whom he addressed. If Calvert was the noble steed of the 
middle ages, caparisoned in chain-armor, and practised to 
wheel, and bound, and rear, and recoil, as the necessities 
of the fight required — then was Beauchampe the light Ara- 
bian courser, who, if he may not combat on equal terms 
with his opponent, at least, by his agility and unremitting 
attack, keeps him busy at all points in the work of defence. 
If he gives himself no repose, he leaves his enemy none. 
Now here, now there, with the rapidity of lightning, he 
fatigues his heavily-armed foe by the frequency of his evo- 
lutions — he himself being less encumbered by weight and 
armor, and being at the same time more easily refreshed 
for a renewal of the fight. 

Such was the nature of their combat which lasted, at in- 
tervals, throughout the day. Beauchampe had made his 
debut with considerable eclat. His heart was bounding 
with the excitement of the conflict. The friends of Colonel 
Sharpe were in ecstacies. They had been dashed by the 
superior eloquence of the new assailant. They feared and 
felt the impression which Calvert had made ; and, expect- 
ing nothing from so young a beginner as Beauchampe, they 
naturally exaggerated the character of his speech, when 
they found it so far to exceed their expectations. The 
compliments which he received were not confined to the 
friends of Colonel Sharpe. The opposition confessed his 
excellence, and Calvert himself was the first, when it was 


178 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


over, to come forward, make the acquaintance, and offer his 
congratulations. 

Colonel Sharpe arrived that night. As soon as this fact 
was ascertained, Beauchampe prepared to return home. 
Sharpe had brought with him two friends, both lawyers, 
men of some parts, who rendered any further assistance 
from our young husband unnecessary. The resolution of 
the new bridegroom so soon to leave the field, provoked 
the merriment of the veterans. 

“ And so you are really married V And what sort of a 
wife have you got, Beauchampe ?” demanded Sharpe. 

“ You can readily guess,” said Barnabas, “ when you find 
him so eager to get home without waiting to see the end 
of the business here.” 

“ Is she young and handsome, Beauchampe ?” 

“ And what are her moral possessions, as defined by 
Whisker-Ben ?” was the demand of Barnabas. 

The tone of these remarks, and inquiries was excessively 
annoying to Beauchampe. There was something like gross 
irreverence in it. It seemed as if his sensibilities suffered 
a stab with every syllable which he was called upon to 
answer. Besides, it was only when examined in reference 
to the age, appearance and name of his wife, that he be- 
came vividly impressed with the painful consciousness of 
what must be concealed in her history. The burning blush 
on his cheeks, when he replied to his companions, only 
served to subject his unnecessary modesty to the usual sar- 
casms which are common in such cases. 

“ And you will go ?” said Sharpe. 

“ I promised my wife to return as soon as you came, and 
she will expect me.” 

“ I must see that wife of yours who has so much power 
over you. is she so very handsome, Beauchampe ?” 

“ / think so.” 

u 4ud what did you Say was her name before marriage ?” 
was the further Inquiry; 


STUMP PATRIOTS. 179 

He was answered, though with some hesitation. 

“ Cooke, Cooke ! You say in your letter that she’s won- 
derfully smart ! But, Barnabas, we must judge for our- 
selves, both the beauty and the wit. Hey, boy ! are we 
not a committee on that subject ?”. 

“ To be sure we are — for that matter, Beauchampe could 
only marry with our consent. He will have to be very 
civil in showing us the lady, to persuade us to sanction this 
premature affair.” 

“ Do you hear, Beauchampe ?” 

“ I do not fear. When you have seen her, the consent 
will not be withheld, I’m sure.” 

“ You believe in your princess, then ?” 

“ Fervently !” 

“ You are very young, Beauchampe — very young! But 
we were all young, Barnabas, and have paid the penalties 
of youth. An age of unbelief for a youth of faith. Thirty 
years of skepticism for some three months’ intoxication. 
But how soon that gristle of credulity hardens into callous- 
ness ! How long do you give Beauchampe before he gains 
his freedom ?” 

“ That,” said Barnabas, “ will depend very much on 
how much he sees of wife, children, and friends. If he 
were now to set off alone and take a voyage to Canton, the 
probability is he would be quite as much a victim until he 
got back. Three weeks at home would probably give him 
a more decided taste for the Canton voyage, and he would 
take a second, and stay abroad longer. Beyond that there 
is no need to look ; the story always ends in the same way. 
I never knew a tale which had so little variety.” 

There was more of this dialogue which we do not care to 
record. The moral atmosphere was not grateful to the 
tastes of the young man. Sharpe saw that, and changed 
the subject. 

“ You have made good fight to-day — so they tell me. I 
knew you would * But you should keep it up. Take my 


180 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


word, another day here would be the making of you. One 
speech proves nothing if it produces no more.” 

“ I shall only be in the way,” said Beauchampe. “ You 
have Barnabas and Mercer.” 

“ Good men and true, but the more the merrier. Iiow 
know I whom the opposition will bring into the field ?” 

“ They will scarcely get one superior to Calvert.” 

“ So, you like him then ?” 

“ I do — very much. He will give you a hard fight.” 

“ Will he, then ?” said Colonel Sharpe, with some ap- 
pearance of pique; “ well ! we shall see — Heaven send 
the hour as soon as may be.” 

“ Be wary,” said Beauchampe, “ for I assure you he is a 
perfect master of his weapon. I have seldom even fancied 
a more adroit or able speaker.” 

“ Do 1 not tell you you are young, Beauchampe ?” 

“ Young or old, take my counsel as a matter of prudence, 
and be wary. He will certainly prove to you the necessity 
of looking through your armory.” 

“ By my faith but I should like to see this champion who 
has so intoxicated you. You have made me curious, and 
I must see him to-night. Where does he lodge ?” 

“ At the Red Heifer.” 

“ Shall we go to him, or send for him ? What say you, 
Barnabas ?” 

“ Oh, go to him, be sure. It will have a good effect. It 
will show as if you were not proud.” 

“ And did not fear him ! Come, Beauchampe, if you will 
not stay and do battle for us any longer, pen a billet of in- 
troduction to this famous orator. Say to him, that your 
friends, Messieurs Sharpe and Barnabas, of whom you may 
say the prettiest things with safety, will come over this 
evening to test the hospitality of the Red Heifer. Be sure 
to state that it is your new wife that hurries you off, or the 
conceited fellow may fancy that he has made you sick with 
his drubbing. Ho! Sutton — landlord ! what ho ! there V* 


STUMP PATRIOTS. 


181 


The person summoned made his appearance* 

“ Ha ! Sutton ! How are you, my old boy ? — havVt seen 
you since the last flood — and what’s to be done down here ? 
What are you going to do ? Is it court or country party 
here — Tompkins or Desha ?” 

44 Well, kurnel, there’s no telling to a certainty, till the 
votes is in the box and counted ; but I reckon all goes 
right, jist now, as you’d like to find it.” 

“Very good — and you think Beauchampe did well to- 
day ?” 

“ Mighty onexpected well. He’ll be a screamer yet, 1 
tell you.” 

“ There’s a promise of fame for you, Beauchampe, which 
ought to make you stay a day longer. Think now of be- 
coming a screamer ! You said a screamer, Sutton, old fel- 
low, didn’t you ?” 

“ Screamer’s the word, kurnel ; and ’twon’t be much 
wanting to make him one. He did talk the boldest now, 
I tell you, considerin’ what he had to work ag’in.” 

44 What ! is this Mr. Calvert a screamer too ?” 

44 Raal grit, kurnel — no mistake. Talks like a book.” 

44 And so, I suppose,” said Sharpe, in the manner of a 
man who knows his strength and expects it to be acknowl- 
edged, 44 and so I suppose you look for me to come out in 
all my strength ? You will require me to talk like two 
books ?” 

44 Jist so, kurnel, the people’s a-looking for it ; and it’s 
an even bet with some, that you can’t do better than this 
strange chap, Calvert.” 

“ But there are enough to take up such a bet ? Are there 
not, old fellow ?” 

44 W ell, I reckon there are ; but you know how a nag has 
to work when the odds are even.” 

44 Ay, ay! We must see this fellow, that’s clean We 
must measure his height, breadth, and strength, beforehand. 


182 


ffEAttCHAM^E. 


No harm to look at any one’s enemy the night before fight 
ing him, Sutton, is there V * 

“ None in natur*, kurnel. It’s a sort o* right one has to 
feel the heft of the chap that wants to fling him.” 

“ Even so, old boy — so get us pen, ink, and paper, 
here, while Beauchampe writes him a sort of friendly chal- 
lenge. I say, Sutton, the Red Heifer is against us, is 
she ?” 

“ I reckon it’s the Red Heifer’s husband, kurnel,” said 
the landlord, as he placed the writing materials. “ If ’twas 
the Red Heifer herself, I’m thinking the vote would be clear 
t’other way.” 

“ Ha ! ha ! you wicked dog !” exclaimed Sharpe, with a 
chuckle of perfect self-complacence ; “ I see you do not 
easily forget old times.” 

“No, no, kurnel ! — a good recollection of old times is a 
sort of Christian duty : it sort o’ keeps a man in memory 
of friends and inimies.” 

“ But the Red Heifer was neither friend nor enemy of 
yours, Sutton ?” 

“ No, kurnel, but the Heifer’s husband had a notion that 
'tworn’t any fault of mine that she worn’t.” 

“Ah, you sad dog!” said Sharpe, flatteringly. 

“ A leetle like my customers, kurnel,” responded the 
landlord, with a knowing leer. 

“ I would I could see her, though for a minute only.’ 

“ That’s pretty onpossible. He’s strict enough upon her 
now-a-days ; never lets her out of sight, and watches every 
eye that looks to her part of the house. He’d be mighty 
suspicious of you , if you went there.” 

“ But he has no cause, Sutton !” 

“ Well, you say so, kurnel, and I’m not the man to say 
otherwise ; but he thinks very different, I can tell you. 
He ain’t the man to show his teeth ; but, mark me, his eye 
won’t leave you from the time you come, to the time you 
quit.” 


SWMP PATRIOtS. 


183 


u We’ll note him, Sutton. Ready, Beauchampe ?” 

The youth answered by handing the note to the landlord, 
by whom it was instantly despatched according to its direc- 
tion. A few moments only had elapsed, when an answer 
was received, acknowledging the compliment, and request- 
ing to see the friends of Mr. Beauchampe at their earliest 
leisure. 

“ This is well,” said Sharpe. “ I confess my impatience 
to behold this formidable antagonist. Bestir yourself, Bar- 
nabas, with that toddy, over which you seem to have been 
saying the devil’s prayers for the last half-hour ! Be sure 
and bring a hatful of your cigars along with you. The 
Red Heifer, 1 suspect, will yield us nothing half so good. 
Ho, Beauchampe ! are you sleeping ?” 

A slap on the shoulder aroused Beauchampe from some- 
thing like a waking dream, and he started to his feet with 
a bewildered look. He had been thinking of his wife*, and 
of the cruel portions of her strange history — to which, as 
by an inevitable impulse, the equivocal dialogue between 
Sharpe and the landlord seemed to carry him back. 

“Dreaming of your wife, no doubt! Ha! ha! — Beau- 
champe, how long will you be a boy ?” 

Why did these words annoy Beauchampe ? Was there 
anything sinister in their signification ? Why did those 
tones of his friend’s voice send a shudder through the 
youth’s veins ? Had he also his presentiments ? We shall 
see. At all events, his dream, whatever may have been its 
character, was thoroughly broken. He turned to the land 
lord, and ordered his horse to be got instantly. 

“ You will go, then ?” said Sharpe. 

“ Yes ; you do not need me any longer.” 

“You are resolved, then, not to be a screamer! What 
a perverse nature ! Here is Fame, singing like the ducks 
of Mrs. Bond, ‘Come and catch me’ — and d — 1 a bit he 
stirs for all their invitation ! But he’s young, Barnabas, 
and has a young wife not five weeks old. We must be 


184 


BeauchaMBe. 


indulgent, Barnabas. We must not be too strict in out 
examination. ” 

“We were young ourselves once/’ said Barnabas, kindly 
looking to Beauchampe. 

44 But do not be precipitate, old fellow. Though merci- 
fully inclined, it must be real beauty, and genuine wit, 
that shall save our brother. Our certificate will depend 
on that. Beauchampe, look to see us to dinner day after 
to-morrow.” 

“I shall expect you,” said Beauchampe, faintly, as, bid- 
ding them farewell, he left the room. 

• 44 Ha ! ha ! ha ! poor fellow !” said Sharpe. 44 His treas- 

ures make him sad. He is just now as anxious and appre- 
hensive as an old miser of seventy.” 

“Egad, he little dreams, just now, how valuable the 
club will be to him a few months hence,” said Barna- 
bas. 

“ Everything to him. Let us drink 4 The club,’ Barna- 
bas.” And they filled, and bowed to each other, hob-a- 
nob. 

“ The club !” 

“ The pope /” 

“ And the pope’s wife !” 

“ No go, that !” said Sharpe. “ Antiques are masculine 
only. She’s dead to us ; she’s too old.” 

“ What say you to this wife of Beauchampe, then ?” 

“We won’t drink her until we see her ; though I rather 
suspect she must be pretty, for he has an eye in his head. 

But what a d d fool to leap so hurriedly, without once 

looking after the consideration ! That was a woful error ! 

— only to be excused by her superexcellence. We shall 
see in season ; though, curse me, if I do not fancy he’d 
rather see the devil than either of us ! He’s jealous al- 
ready. Hid you observe how faintly he said, 4 Good-night’ 

— and how coldly he gave his invitation ? But we’ll like 
his wife the better for it, Barnabas. 4 When the hus- 


STUMP PATRIOTS. 


185 


band’s jealous, the wife’s fair game.’ Thus saith the 
proverb.” 

“ And a wholesome one! But — did we drink? I’m 
not sure that we have not forgotten it.” 

And the speaker explored the bottom of the pitcher, and 
knew not exactly which had deceived him, his memory or 
his palate. 


BEAUCHAMP* 


IM 


CHAPTER XYIi. 

THE SAGE AND HIS PUPIL. 

In one of the apartments of the Red Heifer, wo per- 
sons were sitting about this time. One of these vas the 
orator whose successes that day had beer the theme of 
every tongue. The other was a man well stricken in 
years, of commanding form, and venerable and intellec- 
tual aspect. His hair was long and white, while his 
cheeks were yet smooth and even rosy, as if they spoke 
for a well-satisfied conscience and gentle heart in their 
proprietor. 

The eyes of the old man were settled upon the young 
one. There was a paternal exultation in their glance, 
which sufficiently declared the interest which he felt in 
the fortunes and triumphs of his companion. The eyes 
of the youth were fixed with something of inquiry upon 
the note of Beauchampe, which he still turned with his 
fingers. There was something of doubt and misgiving in 
the expression of his face ; which his companion noted, to 
ask : — 

“ Is there nothing in that note, William, besides what 
you have read ? It seems to disturb you.” 

“ Nothing, sir ; nor can I say that it disturbs me exactly. 
Perhaps every young beginner feels the same disquieting 
sort of excitement when he is about to meet his antagonist 
for the first time. You are aware, sir, that this gentleman, 
Colonel Sharpe, is the Coryphaeus of the opposition, tic 


THE SAGE AND HIS PUPIL. 


187 


is the right-hand man of Desha, and has the reputation of 
being one of the ablest lawyers and most popular orators 
in the state.” 

“ You need not fear him, my son,” said the elder ; “ I 
am now sure of your strength. You will not fail — you 
can not. You have your mind at the control of your will ; 
and it needs only that you should go and be sure of oppo- 
sition. Had that power but been mine — but it is useless 
now ! I enjoy my own hoped-for triumphs in the certain- 
ties of yours.” 

f< So far, sir, as the will enables us to prove what we 
are, and have in us, so far I think I may rely upon myself. 
But the mere will to perform is not always — perhaps not 
often — -the power. This man Sharpe brings into the field 
more than ordinary talents. Hitherto, with the exception 
of this young man Beauchampe, all my opponents have 
been very feeble men — mere dealers in rhodomontade of 
a very commonplace sort. Beauchampe, who is said to 
have been a pupil of Colonel Sharpe, was merely put for- 
ward to-day to speak against time. This fact alone shows 
the moderate estimate which they put upon his abilities : 
and yet what a surprising effect his speech produced — 
what excitement, what enthusiasm ! Besides, it was evi 
dently unpremeditated ; for it was, throughout, an answer 
to mine.” 

“ But it was no answer : it was mere declamation.” 

“ So it was, sir ; but it was declamation that sounded 
very much like argument, and had the effect of argument. 
It is no small proof of a speaker’s ability, when he can 
enter without premeditation upon a subject — a subject, too, 
which is decidedly against him — and so discuss it — so 
suppress the unfavorable and so emphasize the favorable 
parts of his cause — as to produce such an impression. 
Now, if this be the pupil of Colonel Sharpe, and so little 
esteemed as to be used simply to gain time, what have we 
to expect, what to fear, from the presence of the master?” 


188 


BEAUCHAMP; 


“ Fear nothing, William ! nay, whatever you may say 
here, in cool deliberate moments, you can not fear when 
you are there ! That I know. When you stand before the 
people, and every voice is hushed in expectation, a differ- 
ent spirit takes possession of your bosom. Nothing then 
can daunt you. I have seen the proofs too often of what I 
say ; and I now tell you that it is in your power tc handle 
this Colonel Sharpe with quite as much ease and success 
as you have handled all the rest. Do not brood upon it 
with such a mind, my son — do not encourage these doubt3. 
To be an orator you must no more be liable to fear than a 
soldier going into battle.” 

“ Somehow, sir, there are certain names which disturb 
me — I have met with men whose looks had the same effect. 
They seem to exercise the power of a spell upon my mind 
and frame.” 

“ But you burst from it ?” 

“ Yes, but with great effort.” 

“ It matters nothing. The difficulty is easily accounted 
for, as well as the spell by which you were bound. That 
spell is in your own ardency of imagination. Persons of 
your temperament, for ever on the leap, are for ever liable 
to recoil. Have you never advanced impetuously to grasp 
the hand of one who has been named to you, and then al- 
most shrunk away from his grasp, as soon as you have be- 
held his face ? He was a phlegmatic, perhaps ; and your 
warm nature recoiled with a feeling of natural antipathy 
from the repelling coldness of his; The man who pours 
forth his feelings under enthusiastic impulses is particularly 
liable to this frigid influence. A deliberate matter-of-fact 
question, at such a moment — the simplification into baldness 
of the subject of his own inquiry, by the lips of a cynic — 
will quench his ardor, and make him shrink within his shell, 
as a spirit of good may be supposed to recoil from the ap- 
proach of a spirit of evil. Now, you have just enough of 
this enthusiasm to be sensible ordinarily to this influence. 


THE SAGE AND HIS PUPIL. 


189 


You acknowledged it only on ordinary occasions, however 
At first, I feared its general effect upon you. I dreaded 
lest it should enfeeble you ; but I soon discovered that you 
had a will, which, in the moment of necessity, could pver- 
come it quite. As I said before, when you are once before 
the crowd, and they wait in silence for your utterance, you 
are wholly a man! I have no fears for you, William — I 
believe in no spells — none, at least, which need to trouble 
you. I know that you have no reason to fear, and I know 
that you will not fear when the time comes. Let me pre- 
dict for you a more complete triumph to-morrow than any 
which has happened yet.” 

“ You overrate me, sir. All I shall endeavor to do will 
be to keep what ground I may have already won. I must 
not hope to make any new conquests in the teeth of so 
able a foe.” 

“That is enough. To maintain your conquests is the 
next thing to making them ; and is usually a conquest by 
itself. But you will do more — you can not help it. You 
have the argument with you, and that is half the battle. 
Nay, it is all the battle to a mind so enthusiastic as yours 
in the cause of truth. The truth confers a strange power 
upon its advocate. Nay, I believe it is from the truth alone 
that we gather the last best powers of eloquence. I believe 
in the realness of no eloquence unless it comes from the 
sincerity of the orator. To make me believe, the speaker 
must himself believe.” 

“ Or seem to do so.” 

“ I think I should detect the seeming. Nay, after a little 
while, the people themselves detect it, and the orator sinks 
accordingly. This is the fate of many of our men who 
begin popularly. With politics, for a profession , no man 
can be honest or consistent long. He must soon trade on 
borrowed capital. He soon deals in assignats and false 
papers. He endorses the paper of other men, sooner than 
pot issue ; and in doing business at all hazards, he soqn 


190 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


incurs the last — bankruptcy! Political bankruptcy is of 
all sorts the worst. There is some chance of regaining 
caste, where it is lost by dishonesty — but never where it 
follows from a blunder. The knave is certainly one thing, 
but the blunderer may be both. The fool and knave united 
are incorrigible. Such a combination is too monstrous for 
popular patience. And how many do we see of this de- 
scription. I do not think there is in any profession under 
the sun such numerous examples of this combination. Every 
day shows us persons who toil for power and place with 
principles sufficiently flexible to suit any condition of things ; 
and yet they fail, and expose themselves. This is the won- 
der — that, unfettered as they make themselves at the be- 
ginning, they should still become bondsmen, and so, con- 
vict ! They seem to lack only one faculty of the knave — 
and that the most necessary — art.” 

“ Their very rejection of law enslaves them. That is 
the reason. They set out in a chain, which increases with 
every movement — which seems momently to multiply its 
own links and hourly increase its weight. Falsehood is 
such a chain. You can not convict a true man, for the 
simple reason that his feet are unimpeded from the first. 
A step in error is a step backward, which requires two for- 
ward before you can regain what is lost. How few have 
the courage for this. It is so much easier to keep on — so 
difficult to turn! This chain — the heavy weight which 
error is for ever doomed to carry — produces a stiffness of 
the limbs — a monstrous awkwardness — an inflexibility, 
which exposes its burdens whenever it is checked, com- 
pelled to leap aside, or attempt any sudden change of move- 
ment. This was the great difficulty of this young man, 
Beauchampe, in the discussion to-day : he scarcely knew 
it himself, because, to a young man of ingenuity, the diffi- 
culties of the argument on the wrong side, are themselves 
provocations to error. By exercising ingenuity, they appeal 
flatteringly to one’s sense of talent ; and, in proportiop as 


THE SAGE AND HIS PUPIL. 


191 


he may succeed in plausibly relieving himself from these 
difficulties of the subject, in the same proportion will he 
gradually identify himself with the side he now espouses. 
His mind will gradually adopt the point of view to which 
its own subtleties conduct it; and, in this way will it be- 
come fettered, possibly to the latest moment of his existence. 
There is nothing more important to the popular orator than 
to have "Truth for his ally when lie first takes the field. 
Success, under such auspices, will commend her to his love, 
and the bias, once established, his faith is perpetual.” 

“ True, William, but you would make this alliance acci- 
dental. It must be the result of choice to be worth any- 
thing. We must love Truth, and seek her, or she does not 
become our ally.” 

“ I wish it were possible to convince our young beginners 
everywhere, not only that Truth is the best ally, but the 
only one that, in the long run, can possibly conduct us to 
permanent success.” 

“ This is not so much the point, 1 think, as to enable 
them to detect the true from the false. Very few" young 
men are able to do this before thirty. Hence the error of 
forcing them into public life before that period. You will 
seldom meet with a very young person who will deliber- 
ately choose the false in preference to the true, from a sel- 
fish motive. They are beguiled into error by those who 
are older. It is precisely in politics as in morals. The 
unsuspecting youth, through the management of some cold, 
cunning debauchee, into whose hands he falls, finds himself 
in the embrace of a harlot, at the very moment when he 
most dreams of beatific love. The inner nature, not yet 
practised to defend itself, becomes the prey of the outer ; 
and strong indeed must be native energies which can finally 
recover the lost ground, and expel the invader from his 
place of vantage.” 

“ The case is shown in that of this young man, Beau- 
champe. It is evidently a matter of no moment to him on 


192 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


which side he enlists himself just now. There is no truth 
involved in it, to his eyes. It is a game of skill carried 
on between two parties ; and his choice is determined sim 
ply by that with which lie has been familiar. He is used 
by Sharpe, who is an older man, and possessed of more ex- 
perience, to promote an end. He little dreams that, in 
doing so, he is incurring a moral obligation to mountain the 
same conflict through his whole career,” 


TlEiE MEETING OE TilB WATERS — AN EXPLOSION. 


CHAPTER X Y III. 

THE MEETING OF THE WATERS — AN EXPLOSION. 

At this stage of the conversation, the two companions 
were interrupted by the sudden entrance of a sly-looking 
little deformity of a man, the landlord of the Red Heifer, 
who, in somewhat stately accents, announced the approach 
of Colonel Sharpe and his friend Mr. Barnabas. The two 
gentlemen rose promptly, expressed their pleasure at the 
annunciation, and begged the landlord to introduce the 
visiters. 

In a few moments this was done, though it was found 
that they were not the only guests. They were followed 
closely by a group of ten or a dozen substantial yeomen of 
the neighborhood — persons who never dreamed, in the un- 
sophisticated region of our story, that they were guilty of 
any trespass upon social laws in thus pressing uninvited 
into a gentleman’s private apartments. Our simple repub- 
licans supposed that, because they had a motive, they had 
also a sufficient plea in justification. Their object was, to 
be present at the first meeting of the rival candidates, 
when, they fancied, that there would be a keen encounter 
of wits, and such a display of the respective powers of the 
opponents as would enable them to form a judgment in re- 
spect to the parties, for one or other of whom they would 
be required to cast their votes. 

The intrusion was of a sort to offend nobodv. The pub- 

9 


194 


BEAtJCHAMI* K. 


lie men were used to such familiarities, particularly at pub- 
lic hotels ; and the people somewhat presumed upon the 
dependence of the candidates upon their support, which 
would make them quite careful neither to take nor to give 
offence. 

The two gentlemen, accordingly, as the crowd made its 
appearance, welcomed all parties ; while the yeomen, ran- 
ging themselves about the entrance, suffered the invited 
guests to pass beyond them into the centre of the room. 

William Calvert, our young orator, felt a rising emotion 
at his heart, which was not, as he fancied, exaotly the re- 
sult of his mental humility. It was, on the contrary, rather 
the proof of a strong craving, an intense ambition, which, 
aiming at the highest, naturally felt some misgivings of its 
own strength and securities when about to measure, for the 
first time, with a champion who was already famous. We 
have seen how these misgivings had troubled him in the 
previous dialogue, and have heard how his venerable com- 
panion had endeavored to strengthen him against them. 

The labor was perhaps an unnecessary one. The young 
man’s quailing was from his own extreme standards, rather 
than from the height and dimensions of his rival. But the 
issue between them was not destined to be one of intellect, 
and, in respect to the keen encounter of the rival wits, our 
yeomen were doomed to disappointment. But there was to 
be a trial between them, nevertheless, which probably com- 
pensated the hungering expectants for what was withheld. 

The huge, beefy landlord of the opposition house, Sutton, 
now bustled forward, having the arm of Colonel. Sharpe 
within his own. The little, deformed representative of the 
Red Heifer — our house — stationing himself beside Cal- 
vert, confronted the rival landlord with an air which ex 
hibited something more of defiance than cordiality. Very 
bitter, from time immemorial, had been the feuds between 
the two houses — not so bloody, perhaps, but quite as angry, 
bitter, ar d enduring, as those which sundered the factions 


THE MEETING OF THE WATERS— AN EXPLOSION. 19o 

of York and Lancaster. Of course, the quarrel between 
them being generally understood, the defiant demonstra- 
tions of the two commanded but little notice. All eyes 
Were rather addressed to the rival politicians who were 
about to meet. 

Mr. Barnabas, with bow and smirk, drew near to tha 
elder Calvert, who extended his hand to him very cour- 
teously, received his gripe, and with him turned to the 
younger Calvert, to whom Colonel Sharpe was approaching 
at the same time. As the parties were about to meet, the 
colonel, shaking off the arm of his landlord, extended his 
hand to the rival : — 

“ Mr. Calvert, I believe. I am Colonel Sharpe.” 

The hand of William Calvert was extended to receive 
that of Sharpe, when it was suddenly drawn back. The 
light was now streaming full on the face of Sharpe. 
that of William Calvert, the expression instantly became 
one of mingled astonishment and loathing. His hands were 
thrown behind his back, while, drawing his person up to 
its fullest height, he exclaimed, with a voice of equal sur- 
prise and scorn — 

“ You, sir, Colonel Sharpe — yon!” 

The effect was a mute wonder in the circle. 

Sharpe started, his cheek paling, his eye flashing, at the 
unexpected reception. The audience was confounded to 
expecting silence. Sharpe himself was so surprised as not 
to be able to recover speech immediately. lie did, how- 
ever, in a moment after, and said : — 

“ What is this ? I am Colonel Sharpe. And you, sir- 
are you not Mr. Calvert ?” 

“ Ay, sir ; and, as Mr. Calvert, I can not know Colonel 
Sharpe.” 

These words were spoken in hoarse, almost choking ac- 
cents, but full of determination. The heart of the speaker 
was swelling with indignation ; his brain was fired with 
terrible reminiscences ; his check was flushed with inexpres- 


196 


beauchampe. 


sibie passion ; nis eyes darted glances of most Withering 
scorn, hate, loathing, full in the face of his opponent. 

Aid thus stood the two for a moment. For that space, 
all was mute consternation in the circle. At length, old 
Calvert found his voice, though almost in a whisper, and, 
drawl* g c'ose to the young man, he said : — 

u What do you mean, my son ? Wherefore this strange 
anger ? Who is this man, and why — ” 

Young Calvert had only time to say — “What, sir! do 
ycu not see ? — ” when Sharpe, fully recovered from his 
momentary surprise, came forward witli Barnabas, and, 
with rising accents, formally demanded an explanation. 

“ You must explain, sir — explain !” said Mr. Barnabas. 
“ Why, sir, do you say that you can not know my friend ?” 

“ For the simple reason, sir, that I know him too well 
already,” was the answer, made with a successful effort to 
epeak in distinct and resolute tones. 

“ Ha !” exclaimed Sharpe — “ know me ?” 

“ Ay, sir! as a villain — a base, consummate villain !” 

All was confusion again. 

Sharpe, with prompt fury, darted upon the speaker, put- 
ting forth all his strength of sinew for the grapple. But 
he was not the man, physically, to deal with Calvert. The 
latter seized him with a gripe of iron, and, with a moderate 
effort of muscle, flung him oft*, staggering, among the group 
near the door. This performance exhibited such a degree 
of strength as amply satisfied all the spectators that Cal- 
vert might well scorn such an assailant in that sort of 
encounter. 

Sharpe did not fall — was perhaps saved from falling by 
the interposing crowd. He soon recovered himself, and 
was rushing forward to renew his hopeless attempt, when 
his friend Barnabas threw his arms around him, and held 
him back. 

“ Unhand me, Barnabas ! unhand me, I say ! Shall I 
submit to a blow ?” 


THE MEETING OP THE WATERS — AN EXPLOSION. 197 

“ Surely not, Sharpe. But this is not the way.” 

For a moment, as if slowly recovering thought, Sharpe 
paused, then said huskily, and in low tones : — 

44 You are right. There must be blood ! See to it !” 

44 Stand back ! 1 will see to it.” 

Then advancing to the other party, Barnabas said : — 

44 Mr. Calvert, we must have an apology, or a meeting 
And the apology must be ample, sir ; and it must be public, 
as is the offence.” 

44 Apology, sir ! — to that worthless scoundrel ? You mis- 
take me, sir, very much, if you suppose that I shall apolo- 
gize to him, of all men living, whatever the offence ! It is 
possible, too, sir, that you somewhat mistake your friend. 
He will scarcely demand one — will certainly not need one 

— when he knows me — when he recalls the features of one 
who has already taught him what to fear from an avenger !” 

44 What does all this mean ?” demanded Barnabas ; while 
Sharpe eagerly stretched forward, bewildered — with curi- 
ous eyes, seeking to distinguish the features of the speaker 

— a study not much facilitated by the dim light of the two 
tallow-candles which stood upon the mantel-place. 

44 Who, then, are you, sir?” continued Barnabas. 

44 Nay, sir,” answered the’ other, 14 speak for your friend ! 
Your Colonel Sharpe has, I fancy, as many aliases as any 
rogue of London ! Let Colonel Sharpe — if such be, in 
truth, his name — ” 

44 It is his name, sir, I assure you. Why should you 
doubt it ?” 

44 1 have known him by another, and one associated with 
the foulest infamy !” 

44 Ha!” cried Sharpe — beginning, perhaps, to recall an 
unhappy past. 

Calvert turned full toward him. 

44 Look at me, Alfred Stevens — for such I must still call 
you— look at me, and behold one who is ready to avenge 
the dishonor of Margaret Cooper ! Ha ! villain ! do yoq 


198 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


start? do you shrink? do you remember now the } r oung 
preacher of Charlemont? — the swindling, smooth-spoken 
rogue, who sought out the home of innocence to rob it ol 
peace and innocence at a blow ? Once, before this, we 
stood opposed in deadly strife. Do you think that I am 
less ready now? Then, your foul crime had not been con- 
summated : would to God I had slain you then ! 

“ But it is not too late for vengeance ! Apology, indeed ! 
Will you fight, Alfred Stevens? Say — are you as ready 
now as when the cloth of the preacher might have been a 
protection for your cowardice ? If you are , say to your 
friend here that apology between us is a word of vapor, 
and no meaning. Atonement — blood only — nothing less 
will suffice !” 

Sharpe, staggered at the first address of the speaker, had 
now recovered himself. His countenance was deadly pale. 
His eyes wandered. He had been stunned by the sudden- 
ness of Calvert’s revelations. But the eyes of the crowd 
were upon him. Murmurs of suspicion reached his ears. It 
was necessary that he should take decided ground. Your 
politician must not want audacity. Nay, in proportion to 
his diminished honesty, must be his increase of brass. To 
brazen it out was his policy ; and, by a strong effort, regain- 
ing his composure, he quietly exclaimed, looking round him 
as he spoke : — 

“ The man is certainly mad. I know not what he 
means.” 

“ Liar ! this will not serve you. You shall not escape 
me. You do not deceive me. You shall not deceive these 
people. Your words may deny the truth of what I say, 
but your pallid cheeks confess it. Your hoarse, choking 
accents, your down-looking eyes, confess it. The lie that 
is spoken by your tongue is contradicted by all your other 
faculties. There is no man present who does not see that 
you tremble in your secret soul ; that I have spoken noth- 
ing but the truth* that you are the base villain — the de- 


THE MEETING OF THE WATERS — AN EXPLOSION. 199 

etroyer of beauty and innocence — that I have pronounced 
you !” 

‘‘This is strange, very strange!” said Mr. Barnabas. 

The man is certainly mad,” continued Sharpe, “or 
is a political charge intended to destroy me. A poor, 
base trick, this of yours, Mr. Calvert. It will have no 
effect upon the people. They understand that sort of thing 
too well.” 

“ They shall understand it better ,” said Calvert. “ They 
shall have the whole history of your baseness. Political 
trick, indeed ! We leave that business to you, whose very 
,'ife has been a lie. My friends — ” 

“ Stay, sir,” said Barnabas. “ There is a shorter way 
to settle this. My friend has wronged you, you say. He 
shall give you redress. There need be no more words 
between us.” 

“ Ay, but there must. The redress, of course ; but the 
words shall be a matter of course, also. You shall hear 
my charge against this man renewed. — I pronounce him a 
villain, who, under the name of Alfred Stevens, five years 
ago made his appearance in the village of Charlemont, 
and, pretending to be a student of divinity, obtained the 
confidence of the people ; won the affections of a young lady 
of the place, dishonored and deserted her. This is the 
charge I make against him, which will be sustained by this 
venerable man, and for the truth of which I invoke the all- 
witnessing Heaven. Alfred Stevens, I defy you to deny 
this charge.” 

“ It is all false as hell !” was the husky answer of the 
criminal. 

“It is true as heaven!” said Calvert, and his assevera- 
tion was now confirmed by that of the aged man by whom 
he was accompanied. 

Nor were the spectators unimpressed by the firm, un- 
bending superiority of manner possessed by Calvert over 
that of Sharpe, who was wanting irj lijs usual confidence, 


200 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


and who, possibly from the suddenness of the charge, and 
possibly from a guilty conscience, failed in that promptness 
and freedom of utterance which, in the case of his accuser, 
was greatly increased by the feeling of scorn and indigna- 
tion which was so suddenly reawakened in his bosom. 

The little landlord of the Red Heifer, about this time, 
made himself particularly busy in whispering around that 
it was precisely five years ago that Colonel Sharpe had 
taken a trip to the south with his uncle, and was absent 
two thirds of the year. 

How much more the Red Heifer might have said — for 
he had his own wrongs to stimulate his hostility and mem- 
ory — can only be conjectured; for he was suddenly si- 
lenced by the landlord of the opposition-house, who threat- 
ened to wring his neck if he again thrust it forward in the 
business. 

But the hint of the little man had not fallen upon un- 
heeding ears. There were some twe or three persons who 
recalled the period of Sharpe’s absence in the south, and 
found it to agree with Calvert’s statements. The buzz be- 
came general among the crowd, but was silenced by the 
coolness of Barnabas. 

“ Mr. Calvert,” said he, “ you are evidently mistaken in 
your man. My friend denies your story as it concerns him- 
self. We do not deny that some person looking like my 
friend may have practised upon your people; but that //. 
is not the man he insists. There is yet time to withdraw 
from the awkward position in which you have placed your 
self. There is no shame in acknowledging an error. You 
are clearly in error: you can not persevere in it without 
injustice. Let me beg you, sir, for your own sake, to admit 
as much, and shake hands upon it.” 

“ Shake hands, and with him ? No, no, sir ! this can 
not be. I am in no error. I do not mistake my man. Ho 
is the very villain I have declared him. He must please 
himself as he may with the epithet.” 


THE MEETING OF T&E WATERS — AN EXPLOSiON. 201 

u I am sorry you persist in this unhappy business, Mr. 
Calvert. My friend will withdraw for the present. May I 
see you privately within the hour ?” 

“ At any moment.” 

“ I am very much obliged to you. I like promptness in 
such matters. But, once more, sir, it is not too late. These 
gentlemen will readily understand how you have confounded 
two persons who look something alike. But there is a shade 
of difference, as you see, in the chin, the forehead, perhaps, 
the color of the eyes. Look closely, I pray you, for truly I 
should be sorry, for your own sake, to have you persist in 
your error.” 

Mr. Barnabas, in order to afford Calvert the desired op- 
portunity of discerning the difference between the charged 
and the guilty party, took the light from the mantel and 
held it close to the face of Sharpe. 

“ Pshaw!” said the latter, somewhat impatiently, “the 
fellow is a madman or a fool. Why do you trouble your- 
self further ? Let him have what he wishes.” 

The voice of Calvert, at the same moment, disclaimed 
every doubt on the score of the criminal’s identity. 

“ He is the man ! I should know him, by day and by 
night, among ten thousand !” 

“ You won’t confess yourself mistaken, then ?” said Bar- 
nabas ; “a mere confession of error — an inaccurary of 
vision — the smallest form of admission!” 

Calvert turned from him scornfully. 

“Very well, sir, if it must be so! Good people — my 
friends — you bear us witness we have tried every effort to 
jbtain peace. We are very pacific. But there is a point 
oeyond which there is no forbearance. Integrity can keep 
20 terms with slander. Not one among you but would fight 
if you were called Alfred Stevens. It is the name, as you 
hear, of a swindler — a seducer — a fellow destined for the 
high sessions for Judge Lynch. We shall hear of' him un- 
der sen* ^er '•■Has. We have assured the young gentle- 

9 * 


202 


BEAtICttAMPR. 


man here that we are not Alfred Stevens, and prefer not to 
be called by a nickname ; but he persists, and you Know 
what is to follow. You can all retire to bed, therefore, 
with the gratifying conviction that both gentlemen, being 
bound for it, and good Kentuckians, will be sure to do their 
duty when the time comes. Good-night, gentlemen — and 
may you sleep to waken in the morning to hear some fa- 
mous arguments. I sincerely trust that nothing will hap- 
pen to prevent any of the speakers from attending ; but life 
is the breath in our nostrils, and may go out with a sneeze. 
Of one thing I can assure you, that it will be no fault of 
mine if you do not hear the eloquence, at least, of Mr. 
Barnabas.” 

“ Hurra for Barnabas ! hurra !” was the cry. 

“ Hurra for Barnabas !” the echo. 

“ Calvert for ever !” roared the trombone in the coraer ; 
and the several instruments followed for Sharpe, Calvert, 
and Barnabas, according to the sort of pipes and stops 
with which Providence had kindly blessed them. 


BILLETS FOB BULLETS HOW WRITTEN. 


203 


CHAPTER XIX. 

BILLETS FOR BULLETS — HOW WRITTEN. 

“ I know that this is unavoidable. I know not well, my 
son, how you could have acted otherwise than you did ; and 
yet the whole affair is very shocking.” 

Thus began the elder Calvert to the younger, when they 
again found themselves alone together. 

“ It is : but crime is shocking ; and death is shocking ; 
and a thousand events that, nevertheless, occur hourly in 
life, are shocking. Our best philosophy, when they seem 
unavoidable, is, to prepare for them as resolutely as we 
prepare for death.” 

“ It may be death, my son !” said the other with a shud- 
der. 

And if it were, sir, I should gladly meet death, that I 
might have the power of avenging her ! 0 God ! when I 

think of her — so beautiful, so proud, so bright — so dear 
to me then — so dear to me even now — I feel how worth- 
less to me arc all the triumphs of life — how little worth is 
life itself!” 

And a passionate flood of tears concluded the words of 
the speaker. 

“ Give not thus way, my son. Be a man.” 

“ Am I not ? God ! what have I not endured ? what 
have I not overcome? Will you not suffer a moment’s 
weakness — not even when I think of her ? 0 Margaret ! 

but for this serpent in our Eden, what might we not have 


204 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


been ! How might we have loved ! how happy might have 
passed those days which are now toil and hopelessness to 
me, which are shame and desolation to you ! But for this 
serpent, we had both been happy.” 

“ No, my son, that would have been impossible. But the 
speculation is useless now.” 

“ Worse than useless !” 

“ Why brood upon it, then ?” 

“ For that very reason ; as one broods over his loss, who 
does not value his gain. It is thus I think of her , and 
cease to think of these successes. What are they to me ? 
Nothing ! Ah ! what might they not have been had she 
been mine? 0 my father! I think of her — her beauty, 
her genius — as of some fallen angel. I look upon this 
wretch as I should regard the fiend. The hoof is wanting, 
it is true, but the mark of the beast is in his face. It can 
surely be no crime to slay such a wretch : murder it can 
not be !” 

“ You think not of yourself, William.” 

“ Yes ! — he may kill me ; but thinking of her, the fallen 
— and of him the beguiler — I have no fear of death — 1 
know not that I have a love of life — I think only of the 
chance accorded me of avenging her cruel overthrow.” 

The re-entrance of Mr. Barnabas, interrupted the dia- 
logue. He came to make the necessary arrangements. 

“Very awkward business, Mr. Calvert — too late now 
for adjustment. May I have the pleasure of knowing the 
name of your friend.” 

Calvert named Major Hawick, a young gentleman of his 
party ; but the old man interfered. 

“ I will act for you, William.” 

“ You !” said the young man. 

“ You, old gentleman !” exclaimed Mr. Barnabas. 

“ Yes,” replied old Calvert, witli spirit, “ shall I be more 
reluctant than you to serve my friend. This, sir, is my son 
by adoption. 1 love him as if he were my own. I love 


BtLLETs for bullets— iitiw wrItte^. 20§ 

lim better than life. Shall I leave him at the very time 
when life is perilled. No — no ! I am sorry for this affair, 
but will stand by him to the last. Let us discuss the ar- 
rangements.” 

“ You’ve seen service before, old gentleman,” said 6ai> 
nabas, looking the eulogium which he did not express. 

u I, too, have been young,” said the other. 

“ True blue, still,” said Barnabas ; “ and though I’m 
sorry for the affair, yet, it gives me pleasure to deal with a 
gentleman of the right spirit. I trust that your son is a 
shot.” 

“ He has nerve and eye !” 

“ Good things enough— very necessary things, but a spice 
of practice does no harm. Now, Sharpe has a knack with 
a pistol that makes it curious to see him, if you be only a 
looker-on .” 

“ Let me stop you, young gentleman,” said old Calvert ; 
“ when I was a young man, such a remark would have 
been held an impertinence.” 

“ Egad !” said Barnabas, “ you have me ! Are we agreed 
then ? Shall it be pistols ?” 

“ Yes : at sunrise to-morrow.” 

“ Good !” 

“ Distance, when we meet,” said Calvert. 

The place of meeting was soon agreed on, and the parties 
separated ; Barnabas taking his leave by complimenting 
the “ old gentleman,” as a “ first-rate man of business.” 

u Of cc arse, ” said he, “ after he had reported to Sharpe 
the progress of the arrangements ; “ of course you were the 
said Stevenf I saw that the fellow’s story was true at the 
first jump. It was sojike you.” 

“ How if I deny it ?” 

“ I shouldn’t believe you. ’Twas too natural. Besides, 
Whisker-Ben blew you long ago, though he could not tell 
the g'rl’s name. Where’s she now — what’s become of 


m 


BKaUCHaMPE. 


“ That’s the mystery I should give something handsom3 
to find out ; but you may guess, from the spirit this fellow 
has shown, that it wouldn’t do for me to go back to Charle 
mont. She was a splendid woman !” 

“ Was she though ? I reckon this fellow loved her. H<? 
must have done so. He looked all he said.” 

“ He did ! The wonder is equally great in his case. lie 
was a sort of half-witted rustic in Charlemont — Margaret 
despised him- — he wanted to fight me before, on her ac- 
count, and we were within an ace of it. His name was 
Hinkley — to think that I should meet in him the now 
famous Calvert. Look you, Barnabas ! the pistol is a way 
we had not thought of for laying our orator on his back.’ 1 

“ Will you do it ?” 

“ I must ! He leaves me no alternative. He will keep 
no terms — no counsel. If he goe3 on to blab this business 
— nay, he can prove it, you see — he will play the devil 
with my chances.” 

“ Wing him ! That will be enough. The fellow has 
pluck ; and for the sake of that brave old cock, his father, 
I’d like him to get off with breath enough to carry him 
farther.” 

“ No, d — n him, let him pay the penalty of his imperti 
nence ! Who made him the champion of Margaret Cooper ? 
Were he her husband now — nay, had she even tolerated 
him — I think I should let him off with some moderate hurt ; 
but I owe him a grudge. You have not heard a//, Barna- 
bas !” — the tone of the speaker was lowered here, and a 
deep crimson flush suffused his face as he cor eluded the 
sentence — “ He struck me, Barnabas — he laid cowskln 
over my back !” 

“ The d— 1 he did !” 

“ He did — I must remember that !” 

“ So you must ! So you must !” 

“ I will kill him, Barnabas ! I am resolved on it ! I feel 
the sting of that cowskin even now ?” 


BILLETS FOR BULLETS — HOW WRITTEN 20? 

“ So you must, but somehow, d — n the fellow, I’d like to 
get him off.” 

“ Pshaw ! you are getting old. Certainly you are get- 
ting blind. We have a thousand reasons for not letting 
him off. He’s in our way — he’s a giant among the oppo- 
sition — the crack man they have set up against me. Even 
if 1 had not any personal causes of provocation, do you not 
see how politic it would be to put him out of the field. It’s 
he or me. If Desha succeeds, I am attorney-general ; if 
Tompkins, Calvert ! No — no! The more I think of it, 
the more necessary it becomes to kill him.” 

“ But, what if he shoots ?” 

“ That he does not — he did not at least. You must, at 
all events, secure me my distance. I suppose you will have 
little difficulty in this respect. The old man will scarcely 
know anything about these matters.” 

“ You’re mistaken — he talks as if he had been at it all 
his life. I reckon he has fed on fire in his younger days. 
The choice, of course, is his.” 

44 A little adroitness, Barnabas, will give us what we 
want. You can insinuate twelve paces.” 

“ Yes, that can be done, but ten is more usual. Suppose 
he adopts ten ?” 

“ That is what I expect. He will scarcely accept your 
suggestion. He will naturally suppose, from what you say, 
that I practise at twelve. This will, very probably, induce 
him to say ten, and then I have him on my own terms. I 
shall easily bottle him at that distance.” 

“ And you will really commission the bullet ? You will 
kill him?” * 

“ Must !” 

“ Sleep on that resolution first, Sharpe !” 

“ It will do no good. It will not change me. This fel- 
low was nothing to Margaret Cooper, and what right had 
he to interfere ? Besides — you forget the cowskin.” 


208 


BEAUCHAMPS). 


“ Oli ! true — d — n that cowskin ! That’s the worst part 
of the business.” 

“ Good night, Barnabas,” said Sharpe. “ See that I do 
not oversleep myself.’ 

“No fear. Good night ! Good night ! D — n the fel- 
low. Why did he use a cowskin ? A hickory had not been 
so bad. Now will Sharpe kill him to a dead certainty. 
He’s good for any button on Calvert’s coat ; and there he 
goes, yawning as naturally as if he had to meet, to-morrow 
morning, nothing worse than his hominy /” 


FIVE PACES — WHEEL AND FIRE. 


209 


CHAPTER XX. 

“ FIVE PACES — WHEEL AND FIRE." 

It was something of a sad sight to see good old Mr. Cal* 
fert, till a late hour that night, brushing up the murderous 
weapons, adjusting bullets, and cutting out patches, with all 
the interested industry of a fire-eater. It was in vain that 
his son — his adopted son, rather, for the reader should 
know by this time with whom he deals — it was in vain that 
he imploied him to forego an employment which really 
made him melancholy, not on his own, but the venerable 
old man’s account. Old Calvert was principled against 
duelling, as he was principled against war ; but he recog- 
nised the necessity in both cases of employing those mode's 
by which, to prevent wrong, society insists upon avenging 
it. He would have preferred that William Calvert should 
not go into J^e field on account of Margaret Cooper ; but, 
once invited, he recognised in all its excellence the good 
counsel of Polonius to his son : — 

“ Beware 

Of entrance to a quarrel : but being in. 

Bear it that the opposer may beware of thee.” 

He at least was resolved that William should not go un- 
prepared and unprovided, in the properest manner, to do 
mischief. In the hot days of his own youth, he had acquired 
some considerable knowledge of the weapon, and the laws 


210 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


rather understood than expressed, which govern personal 
combat as it is, or was, practised in our country. His care 
was now given, not simply to the condition of the weapons, 
but the mind of the combatant. The modes by which the 
imagination is rendered obtuse — the hardening of the 
nerves — the exercise of the eye and arm — could not bo 
resorted to in the brief interval which remained before the; 
appointed hour of conflict — and something was due to slum- 
ber, without which, all exercise and instruction would be 
only thrown away. But there is much that a judicious 
mind can do in acting upon the moral nature of the party ; 
and the conversation of old Calvert was judiciously ad- 
dressed to this point. The young man, who had by this 
time learned to know most of the habitual trains of thought 
by which his tutor was characterized, readily perceived his 
object. 

u You mistake, my dear sir,” he said, smiling, after the 
lapse of an hour, which had been consumed as above de- 
scribed ; “ you mistake if you think I shall fail in nerve or 
coolness. Be sure, sir, I never felt half so determined in 
all my life. The remembrance of Margaret Cooper — the 
sense of former wrong — the loathing hate which I entertain 
for this reptile — exclude every feeling from my soul but 
one , and that is the deliberate determination to destroy him 
if I can.” 

“ This very intensity, William, will shake your nerves. 
No man is more cool than he who obeys no single feeling. 
Single feelings become intense and agitating from the ab- 
sence or absorption of all the rest.” 

u Feel my arm, sir,” he said, extending the limb. 

“ It is firm, now , William ; but if you do not sleep, will 
it be so in the morning ?” 

“ Yes — I have no fear of it.” 

“ But you will go to sleep now ? You see I have every 
thing fthidy*” 

" No ! I can Hot* sir. I must write. I have much 


FIVE PACES — WHEEL AND FIRE. 


211 


say, which, to leave unsaid, would be criminal. Do you 
retire. Hawick will soon be here, who will complete what 
you have been doing. He is expert at these matters, and 
will neglect nothing. I have penned him a note to that 
effect. He will accompany us in the morning. Do you go 
to bed now. You can not, at your time of life, do without 
sleep and not suffer. It can not affect me — nay, if I did 
go to bed, it would be impossible, with these thoughts in 
my mind — these feelings in my heart — that I should close 
my eyes. I should only toss and tumble, and become ner- 
vous from very uneasiness.” 

Having finished, the old man prepared to adopt the sug- 
gestion of the young one. He rose to retire, but the 
“good night” faltered on his lips. Young Calvert, who 
was walking to and fro, was struck by the accents. Sud- 
denly turning he rushed to the venerable man, and fell upon 
his neck. 

“Father! — more than father to me!” exclaimed the 
youth — “ forgive me if I have offended you. 1 feel that 1 
have often erred, but through weakness only, not wilfulness. 
You have succored and strengthened — you have taught, 
counselled, and preserved me. Bless me, and forgive me, 
my father, if in this I have gone against your wishes and 
will — if I have refused your paternal guidance. Believe 
me, I have but one regret at this moment, and it grows out 
of the pain which I feel that I inflict on you. But you will 
forgive — you will bless me, my dear father, and should I 
survive this meeting, I will strive to atone — to recompense 
you by the most fond service, for this one wilfulness !” 

“ God bless you, my son — God preserve you !” was the 
cn/y re^Iy which the old man could make. His heart 
seemed bursting with emotion, and sobs, which he vainly 
atreve tc repress, rose in his throat with a choking, suffo- 
cating rapidity. His tears fell upon the young man’s 
Jioulder while he passionately kissed his cheek. 

“ God will save you,” he continued, as he broke away 


212 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


and, sobbing as he went from sight, his broken accents 
might still, for a few seconds, be heard in the reiteration 
of this one sentence of equal confidence and prayer. 

“ That is done — that is over !” said the youth, sinking 
into a seat beside the table where the writing materials 
were placed : his hands covered his face for a few mo- 
ments, as if to shut from sight the image of the old man’s 
agony. 

“ That word of parting was my fear, good old man !” he 
continued, after the pause of a few moments — “ what a 
Spartan spirit does he possess ! Surely he loves me quite 
as well as father ever loved son before. Yet, with what 
strength of resolution he prepares the weapon — prepares to 
lose me perhaps for ever. I can not doubt that the loss will 
be great to him. It will be the loss of all. His hope, and 
the predictions of his hope, are all perilled by this ; yet 
he complains not — he has no reproaches ! 

“ Surely, I have been too wanton — too rash — too precip- 
itate in this business ! What to me is Margaret Cooper ! 
Her beauty, her talents, and that fair fame of which this 
reptile has for ever robbed her ! She loved me not — she 
hearkened not to my prayer of love — to that love which 
can not perish though the object of its devotion, like a star 
gone suddenly from a high place at night, has sunk for ever 
into darkness. I am not pledged to fight her battles — to 
repair her shame — to bruise the head of the reptile by 
which she was beguiled. 

“ Alas ! I can not reason after this cold fashion. Is it 
not because of this reptile that she is nothing to me — and 
does not this make her defence everything — heighten the 
passion of hate, and make bloody vengeance a most sacred 
virtue ? 

“ It does — it must. Alfred Stevens, I can not choose 
but seek thy life. The imploring beauties of Margaret 
Cooper rise before me, and command me. I will try ! Sc 
help me God. as 1 believe, that the sacrifice of the reptib 


Eive paces — wheel and fiee.” £' k \. 

that crawls to the family altar to leave its si: we ^nd verwru 
is a duty with man — due to the holiest hopes and affeo 
tions of man — and is praiseworthy in the sight t f God. ! I 
can not choose but believe this. God give me stwagth tc 
convert desire into performance !” 

He raised the pistol, unconsciously, as he spoke. le 
pressed it to his forehead. He lifted it in the sight of 
Heaven, as if, in this way, he solemnized his oath. The 
grasp of the weapon in his hand suggested a new train of 
emotion. 

“ I may fall — I may perish ! The hopes of this good 
old man — my own hopes — may all be set at naught. Can 
it be that in a few hours I shall be nothing ? This voice bo 
silent — this arm cold, unconscious, upon this cold bosom , 
Strange, terrible fancy ! — I must not think of it. It makes 
me shudder! It is too late for thoughts like these. I 
must be a man now — a man only. The mere pang — that 
is nothing. But he — thrice a father — he will feel three- 
fold pangs which shall be more lasting. Yet, even with 
him, they can not endure long. Who else ? My poor, poor 
mother !” 

He paused — he drew the paper before him — a tear fell 
upon the unwritten sheet, and he thrust it away. 

“ There is one other pain ! One thought !” he murmured. 
“These high hopes — these schemes of greatness — these 
dreams of ambition — stopped suddenly — like rich flowers 
blooming late, cut down at midnight by the premature 
frost ! Oh ! if I perish r w, how much will be left un- 
done ?” 

Once more the youth started to his feet and paced the 
chamber. But he soon subdued the rebellious struggles of 
his more human nature. Quieted once more he sought to 
baffle thought by concentrating himself upon his tasks 
Resuming his place at the table, he seized his pen. Letter 
after letter grew beneath his hands ; and the faint gray 
light of the dawn peeped in at the windows before he had 


211 


/ 


feEAtiCtiAtiPE. 


yet completed the numerous tasks which required his in- 
dustry. 

A: tap at the door drew his attention and he opened it 
.0 recei ^e his friend, Major Hawick. 

44 You are ready,” said Hawick — 44 but you seem not to 
:2aye slept. How’s this ? You promised me ” 

44 But could not keep my promise. I had much to do, 
ir.d felt that I could not sleep. I was too much excited.” 

4 - That is unfortunate !” 

u It will do no harm. With my temperament I do things 
much hotter when excited than not. The less prepared, 
the better prepared.” 

44 Where’s the old gentleman ?” 

44 He sleeps still. We will not disturb him. We will 
steal out quietly, and I trust everything will be over before 
he wakens. I have left a note for him with these letters.” 

But few moments more did they delay. 

William Calvert remedied to a certain extent the fatigue 
of his night of unrest, by plunging his head into a basin of 
cold water. The preparations of the party were already 
made ; and they issued forth without noise, and soon found 
themselves on the field. Their opponents appeared a few 
moments after. 

44 A pleasant morning, gentlemen,” said Mr. Barnabas. 
44 But how is it I do not see my old friend here, eh ? I had 
a fancy he would not miss it for the world !” 

A rustling among the bushes at a little distance, at this 
moment, saved William Calvert from the necessity of an- 
swering the question. There was the old man himself. 

44 Ah, William !” he said reproachfully, 44 was this kind V 9 

44 Truly, sir, it was meant to be so. I would have spared 
you this scene if possible.” 

44 It was not kind, William, but you meant kindly. You 
did not know me, my son. Had I not been here with you, 
in the moment of danger, I should always have felt as if 1 
bad suffered shame.” 


“Five paces— Wheel fire. 2 \b 

The youth was touched, and turned aside to conceal his 
emotion. The friends of the parties approached in confer- 
ence. The irregularity of Major Hawick’s -attendance beh.* 
explained, and excused under the circumstances, he re- 
mained as a mere spectator. The arrangements then being 
under consideration, Mr. Barnabas said casually, and seem- 
ingly with much indifference — 

“ Well, I suppose, sir, we will set them at twelve paces.” 

“ Very singular that you should offer a suggestion on this 
subject!” was the sharp reply of Mr. Calvert; “this point 
is with us.” 

“Oh, surely, surely — but, this being about the usual 
distance — ” 

“ It is not ours , sir,” said the other coolly. 

“ What do you propose, then ?” 

“Five paces, sir — back to back — wheel and fire within 
the words one and two.” 

Colonel Sharpe, who heard the words, started, and grew 
suddenly pale. 

“ A most murderous distance, sir, indeed !” said Mr. Bar- 
nabas gravely. “ Are you serious, sir ? Do you really 
mean to insist on what you say ?” 

“ Certainly, sir : if I ever jested at all, it should not be 
on such an occasion. These are our terms.” 

“ We must submit, of course,” said the other, as he pro- 
ceeded to place his principal. . While doing this, Colonel 
Sharpe was observed to speak with him somewhat*earnestly. 
Mr. Barnabas, immediately after, again advanced to Mr. 
Calvert, and said 

“ In consenting to your right, sir, on the subject of dis- 
tance, I must at the same time protest against it. The 
consequences, sir, must lie on your head only. I have no 
doubt that both parties will be blown to the devil !” 

Hawick also approached, and whispered the elder Cal- 
vert, in earnest expostulation against this arrangement. 

“ It is impossible for either to escape,” he said ; “ they 


216 


BlUtJOHAMPE. 


are both firm men, and both will fire with great quickness. 
The distance is Very uniisiiai, sir ; and, if the affair ends 
fatally, the reproach will be great.” 

For a moment the old man hesitated, and looked bewil- 
dered. His eye earnestly sought the form of William Cal- 
vert, who was calmly walking at a little distance. He was 
silent for a few seconds ; but, suddenly recovering himself, 
he murmured, rather in soliloquy than in answer -to his com- 
panion : — 

“ No, no ! it must be so : we must take this risk, to avoid 
a greater. 1 sec through these men ; there is no other way 
to baffle them.” 

lie advanced to Mr. Barnabas. 

“ I see no reason to alter my arrangement. To a brave 
man, the nearer the enemy the better.” 

“ A good general principle, sir, but liable to abuse,” said 
Barnabas ; “ but as you please. We toss for the word.” 

The w r ord fell to Calvert. The parties were placed, 
jack to back, with a space of some ten feet between — 
spac>? just enough for the grave of one. With the word, 
which was rather gasped than syllabled by the old man, 
William Calvert wheeled. The first instant glance that 
showed him his enemy drew his fire, and was followed by 
that of his foe. 

In the first few moments after, standing himself, and see- 
ing his enemy still stood, ha fancied that no harm had been 
done. Already the words were on his lips to call for the 
other pistol, when he felt a sudden sickness and dizziness ; 
his right thigh grew stiffened, and he lapsed away upon the 
earth, just as the old man drew nigh to his assistance. 

The bullet had entered the fleshy part of his hip, and 
had lodged there, narrowly avoiding the bone. 

These particulars were afterward ascertained. At first, 
however, the impression of the old man, and that of Major 
Hawick, was, that the wound was mortal. We will not 
seek to describe the mental agony of the former. It was 


“FIVE PACES — WHEEL AND FIRE. 


21 ? 


now that his conscience spoke in torturous self-upbraidings ; 
and, throwing himself beside the unconscious youth, he 
moaned as one who would not be comforted, until assured 
oy the more closely-observing Hawick, who, upon inspect- 
ing the wound, gave him hope of better things. 

Colonel Sharpe was more fortunate. He was uninjured, 
but he had not escaped untouched. His escape, though 
more complete than that of Calvert, had been even yet 
more narrow — the bullet of the former actually barking 
his skull just above the ear, and slightly lacerating the skin 
over his organ of destructiveness. So narrow an escape 
made him very anxious to avoid a second experiment, which 
William Calvert, feebly striving to rise from the ground, 
readily offered himself for. But, while the youth spoke, 
his strength failed him, and he soon sunk away in utter 
unconsciousness. 

Thus ended an affair that promised to be more bloody in 
its results. Perhaps it would have been, but for the ar- 
rangements which old Calvert insisted on. Had the ten 
paces been acceded, there is little doubt that Sharpe, se- 
cure in his practice, would have inflicted a death-wound on 
his opponent. The alteration of distance, the necessity of 
wheeling to fire, aird a proximity to his enemy so close as 
to leave skill but few if any advantages, served to disorder 
his aim, and impair his coolness. It was with no small 
degree of satisfaction that he departed, leaving his enemy 
hors de combat. We, too, shall leave him, and follow the 
progress of the more fortunate party ; assured, as we are, 
that the wound of our young hero, though serious, is not 
dangerous, and that he is in the hands of those who will 
refuse sleep to their eyelids so long as he needs that they 
should watch. 

It will not materially affect the value of this narrative to 
omit all further account of that political canvassing by 
which these parties were brought into a juxtaposition so 
fruitful of unexpected consequences. It will suffice to say 

10 


218 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


that, with Calvert removed from the stump, Colonel Sharpe 
remained master of it. His eloquence that day seemed far 
more potential, indeed, than on ordinary occasions. No 
doubt lie tried his best, in order to do away with whav 
Calvert had previously succeeded in doing; but there was 
an eclat about his morning’s work which materially assisted 
the Avorking of his eloquence. The proceedings of the pre- 
vious night, and the duel which succeeded it, were pretty 
well bruited abroad in the space of a few hours ; and when 
a man passes with success from the field of battle to the 
field of debate, and proves himself equally the master in 
both, vulgar wonder knows little stint, and suffers little 
* qualification from circumstances. Nay, the circumstances 
themselves are usually perverted to suit the results ; and, 
in this case, the story, by the zeal of Sharpe's friends, so 
far from showing that the quarrel grew from the facts which 
did occasion it, was made to have a political origin entirely 
— Sharpe being the champion of one, and Calvert of the 
other party. 

It may be readily conjectured that Sharpe himself gave 
as much encouragement to this report as possible. Bold 
as he might be, he was not altogether prepared to encoun- 
ter the odium to which any notoriety given to the true 
state of the case would necessarily subject him. His par- 
tisans easily took their cue from him, and were willing tc 
accept the affair as a sign of promise in the political con- 
test which was to ensue. We may add that it was no un- 
happy augury. The friends of Sharpe were triumphant , 
and Desha — one of those mauvaise sujets w r hich a time of 
great moral ferment in a country throws upon the surface, 
like scum upon the waters when they are broken up by 
floods, and rush beyond their appointed boundaries — was 
elevated, most unhappily, to the executive chair of the state. 

Thus much is perhaps essential to what should be .known 
of these matters in the progress of our story* IIow r much 
of this result was due to the unfortunate termination of 


“FtVE PACES — WHEEL AMD FIRE." 21 § 

Calvert’s affair with Sharpe, is difficult to determine. The 
friends of the former ascribed their defeat to his wounds, 
which disabled him from the prosecution of that canvass 
through the state which had been so profitably begun. They 
were baffled and dispirited. Their strong man was low ; 
and, gratified with successes already won, and confident of 
the future, Colonel Sharpe closed the night at Bowling- 
Green by communicating to Beauchampe, by letter, his pur- 
pose of visiting him on his return route — an honor which, 
strange enough to Beauchampe himself, did not afford him 
that degree of satisfaction which it seemed to him was only 
natural that it should. 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


220 


CHAPTER XXI. 

THE SPECK OP CLOUD UPON THE SKY OP HAPPINESS. 

Beauchampe and his wife sat together beside the open 
window. It was night — a soft mellowing light fell upon 
the trees and herbage, and the breeze mildly blew in pleas- 
ant gushes about the apartment, in the room was no light. 
Her hand was in his. Her manner was thoughtful, and, 
when she spoke, her words were low and subdued as if, in 
her abstract mood, it needed some effort of her lips to 
speak. 

Beauchampe himself was more moody than his wont. 
There is always, in the heart of one conscious of the recent 
possession of a new and strongly r desired object, a feeling 
of uncertainty. Even the most sanguine temperament, 
feels, at times, unassured of its own blessings. Perhaps, 
such feelings of doubt and incertitude are intended to give 
us a foretaste of those final privations to which life is 
everywhere certainly subject ; and to reconcile us, by nat- 
ural degrees, to the last dread separation in death. At all 
events nothing can be more natural than such feelings. Our 
hearts faint with fear in the very moment when we are rev- 
elling in the sober certainty of waking bliss ! When Love, 
hooded and fettered, refuses to quit his cage — when every 
dream appears satisfied ; when peace, fostered by security, 
seems to smile in the conviction of a reality which prom- 
ises fullest permanence ; and the imagination knows noth- 
ing to crave, and even egotism loses its strong passion for 


SPECK OF CLOUD ON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 221 

complaint ; even then we shudder, as with an instinct that 
teaches much more than any thought, and knocks more 
oudly at the door of the heart, than any of its more reason- 
able apprehensions. 

This instinct was at work, at the same moment, in both 
their bosoms. 

“ 1 know not why it is,” said Beauchampe, “ but I feel 
as if something were to happen. I feel unaccountably sad 
and apprehensive. It is not a fear — scarcely a doubt, that 
nils my mind — nay, for that matter my mind is silent — I 
strive to think in vain. It is a sort of voice from the. soul 
— a presentiment of evil — more like a dream in its ap- 
proaches, and yet, in its influence, more real, more em- 
phatic, than any actual voice speaking to my outward ears. 
Do you ever have such feelings, Anna ?” 

“ I have them now /” she answered in low tones. 

“ Indeed ! it is very strange !” 

He put his arm about her waist as he spoke, and drew 
her closer to himself. Her head sunk upon his shoulder. 
He did not behold them, but her eyes were filled with 
tears. 

How strange were such tears to her ! How suddenly 
had she undergone a change — and such a change ! She 
who had never known fear, was now timid as a child. 
Love is, before all, the great subduer. It was in an un 
known condition of peace and pleasure that the wife of 
Beauchampe had become softened. Apprehension necessa- 
rily succeeds to conquest. There is no courage so cool and 
collected as that which has nothing to lose ; and timidity 
naturally grows from a consciousness of large, valuable, 
and easily endangered possessions. Such was the origin 
of the fear in the bosoms of both. 

Certainly they had much to lose ! Happiness is always 
an unstable possession, and we know this by instinct. The 
union of the two had perfected the union of the two families. 
Mrs. Beauchampe, the elc|er, in the very obvious and re* 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


ooo 

markable change of manner, which followed the marriage 
of Miss Cooke with her son, had become reconciled — nay, 
pleased with the match. Mary Beauchampe was of course 
all joy and all tears ; and even Jane, escaped from the first 
danger of being swallowed up, was gradually brought to 
see the intellectual beauties, and the personal also, of her 
brother’s wife, without beholding her sterner aspects. 

For the present, Beauchampe lived with his wife’s mother, 
but the two families were together daily. They walked, 
rode, sang, read, and played together. They made a little 
world to themselves, and they were so happy in it ! The 
tastes of Beauchampe gradually became more and more re- 
fined and elevated under the nicer sway of feminine taste, 
and those delicacies of direction which none can so well 
impart as a highly-intellectual woman. He no longer 
dreamed of such ordinary distinctions as make up the small 
hopes of witling politicians. To be the great bell-wether 
of a clamorous flock, for a season, did not now constitute 
the leading object of his ambition. Far from it. A short 
month of communion with an enthusiastic, high-souled 
woman ■*— unhappy, perhaps, that she was so — had wrought 
as decided a change in his moral nature, as the love which 
he brought had operated upon hers. They were both 
changed. But it needs not that we should dwell upon the 
power of Love to tame, and subject, and elevate the base 
and stubborn nature. Surely it is no mere fable, rightly 
read, which makes him lead the lion with a thread. Briefly, 
there is no human beast that he can not, with the same 
ease, subdue. 

Before meeting with his wife, however, Beauchampe was 
superior in moral respects to his associates. This must be 
understood. He had strength of mind and ambition ; he 
was generous, free in his impulses, and usually more gentle 
in their direction than was the case with his companions. 
His rudenesses were those of the rustic, whose sensibilities 
yet sleep in his soul, like the undiscovered gold in the dark 


SPECK OF CLOUD ON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 223 

placed of the sullen mountain. It was for Love to detect 
the slight vein leading to these recesses, and to refine the 
treasure to which it led. Great, in matters of this sort, is 
that grand alchemist. The model of refiners is he ! No 
Rosicruciau ever did so much to turn the baser metal into 
gold. Unhappily, as in the case of other seekers after 
projection , it is sometimes the case that the grand experi- 
ment finishes infumo , and possibly with a loud explosion. 

But it does not become us to jest in this stage of our 
narrative Too sad, too serious, are the feelings with 
which we now must deal. If Beauchampe and his wife are 
happy, they are so in the activity and excitement of those 
sensibilities which are the most liable to overthrow. In 
proportion to the exquisite sweetness of the sensation, is its 
close approximation to the borders of pain. The joy of the 
soul which is the source of all the raptures of love, is itself 
a joy 3f sadness, and yearning and excessive apprehension. 
Soon does this apprehension rise to cloud the pleasure and 
oppress the hope. This is the origin of those presenti- 
ments, which say what our thoughts can not say, and in 
spite of our thoughts. They grew in the bosom of * Beau- 
champe and his wife, along with the necessity which he 
felt and had declared, of assuming vigorously the duties of 
his profession. These duties required that he should move 
into a more busy sphere, and. this duty involved the removal 
of his wife from that seclusion in which, for the last five 
years, her sensibilities had found safety. This, to her, was 
a source of terror ; and she trembled with a singular fear 
lest, in doing so — in going once more out into the world 
she had left, she should encounter her betrayer. 

Very different now were her feelings toward Alfred 
Stevens. For five years had she treasured the one vindic- 
tive hope of meeting him with the purpose of revenge. For 
five years had she moulded the bullets, and addressed them 
to the mark which symbolized his breast. Her chief prayer 
ip all this time, was, that she might behold him with power 


224 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


to employ upon him the skill which she had daily shown 
upon the insensible trees of the forest. To kill him, and 
then to die, was all that she had prayed for — and now the 
difference ! 

In one little month all this had undergone a change. Her 
feelings had once more been humanized — perhaps we should 
say womanized ; for, in these respects, women are mere, 
capricious than men, and the transitions of love to hate, a lj 
hate to love, are much more rapid in the case of a grow;! 
woman than in that of a grown man. As for boys, until 
twenty-five, they are perhaps little more than girls in 
breeches — certainly they are quite as capricious. The ex- 
perience of five years after twenty-five does more to harden 
the sensibilities of a man, than any other ten years of bis 
life. 

Great, indeed, was the change in this respect which 
Beauchampe’s wife had undergone. Not to meet Stevens 
was now her prayer. True, she had sworn her husband, 
if they did meet, to take his life. But that had been the 
condition of her hand — that was before he had become her 
husband — before she well knew 1 his value — before she 
could think upon the risks which she herself would incur, 
by the danger which, in the prosecution of this pledge, 
would necessarily accrue to him. Nor was her change of 
character less decided in another grand essential. In 
learning to forget and forgive, she had also learned to forego 
the early dreams with which her ambitious mind com- 
menced its progress. 

“ You speak of fame, Beauchampe,” she said, even while 
sitting as we have described, in the darkness, looking forth 
upon the faint light which the stars shed upon the garden- 
shrubbery : “you speak of fame, Beauchampe — oh ! how I 
once dreamed of it ! Now, I care for it nothing. Rather, 
indeed, should I prefer, if we could remain here, out of the 
world’s eye, living to ourselves, and secure from that opin- 
ion which we arc too apt to seek ; upon which we toamnich 


SPECK OP CLOUD ON THE SKY OP HAPPINESS. 22& 

depend — which does net confer fame, and but too often 
robs us of happiness. It is my presentiment, on this very 
subject, which makes me dread the removal to Frankfort 
which you contemplate.” 

“ And yet,” said he, “ I know not how we can avoid it. 
It seems necessary.” 

“ I believe it, and do not mean to urge you against it. I 
only wish that it were not necessary. But, being so, I will 
go with you cheerfully. I am not daunted by the prospect, 
though it oppresses me. How much more happy, if we 
could live here always !” 

“ No, no, Anna, you would soon sicken of this. You 
would ask, ‘ Why have I married this rustic V You will 
hear of the great men around, and will say, ‘ lie might 
have been one of them ’ Your pride is greater than you 
believe ; you are not so thoroughly cured of your ambition 
as you think.” 

“ Oh, indeed, I am ! I look back to the days when I had 
a passion for fame as to a period when I was under mono- 
mania. Truly, it was a monomania. 0 Beauchampe, had 
you known me then !” 

a Why had I not ? We had been so happy then, Anna — 
we had saved so many days of bliss, and then — but»it is 
not too late ! Anna, there is no good reason why a genius 
such as yours should be obscured — lost for ever. The 
world must know it, and worship it !” 

“ The world ? — oh, never !” she exclaimed, with a shud- 
der. “ The world is my terror now. Would we could 
never know it !” 

“ But why these scruples, dearest ?” 

“ Why ? Can you ask, Beauchampe ? Do you forget 
That I have been — what I am ?” 

u You are my wife, and I am a man. Do you think the 
world will venture to speak a word which shall shame or 
annoy you ?” 

4< It is not in its sneech, but in its knowledge /” 

Q* 


226 


BEAUCFiAMPft. 


44 But wliat will it know ? Nothing.’ 

44 Unless we meet with him /” 

44 And if we do 

44 Ah ! let us speak of it no more, Beauchampe.'* 

44 One word only ! If we meet with him , he dies, ana is 
thus silenced ! Will it be likely that he will speak of that, 
which only incurs the penalty of death ?” 

44 Enough ! enough! The very inquiry — the conjecture 
which you utter, Beauchampe — is conclusive with me that 
I should not go into the world. With you, as your wife — 
humble, shrinking out of sight, solicitous only of obscurity, 
and toiling only for your applause and love — I shall be 
permitted to pass without indignity — without waking up 
that many-tongued slanderer that lies ever in wait, dogging 
the footsteps of ambition. Were I now to seek the praises 
which you and others have thought due to my genius, I 
should incur the hostility of the foul-mouthed and the envi- 
ous. No moment of my life would be secure from suspi- 
cion, no movement of my mind safe from the assaults of the 
caviller. It is one quality of error — hay, even of misfor- 
tune — to betray itself wherever it goes. The proverb tells 
us that murder will have a tongue : it appears to me, that 
a/Z "crimes will reveal themselves in some way, some day or 
other. Better, Beauchampe, that I remain unseen, un- 
known, than be known as I am ! — ” 

44 Better ? — but this can not be ; you must be seen — you 
will be known ! The world will seek you, to admire. Re- 
member, Anna, that I have friends — numerous friends; 
among them are some of the ablest men of our profession — 
of any profession. There is no man better able than this 
very gentleman, Colonel Sharpe, to appreciate a genius such 
as yours.” 

44 Do not mock me with such language, Beauchampe! 
Instead of thinking of the world’s admiration, I should be 
thinking only of its possible discoveries As for Cci r.A 
Sharpe, somehow I have ai impisssiou - gathered, 1 know 


"SPECK OP CLOUD ON THE SKY OP HAPPINESS. 22 ? 

Hot how, but possibly from his letters — that he lacks sin- 
cerity* There is a tone of skepticism and levity about his 
language which displeases and pains me. He lacks heart. 
I only wonder how you should have sought your professional 
knowledge at his hands.” 

“You forget, Anna, that I sought nothing at his hands 
vat professional knowledge ; and most persons will tell you 
that I could scarcely have sought it anywhere with greatei 
prospect of finding it. He is one of our best lawyers. As 
a man, frankly I confess to you, he is not one whom I ad 
mire. You seem to me to have hit his right character. 
He has always seemed to lack sincerity ; and this impres- 
sion, which he made upon me at a very early period, has 
always kept me from putting more of my heart within his 
power than was absolutely unavoidable.” 

u Ah, Beauchampe, a man of your earnest temperament 
knows not how much he gives. You carry your heart too 
much in your eyes — in your hand. This is scarcely good 
policy.” 

“ With you , dearest, it was the only policy,” he said, 
with a smile, while he pressed her closer to his bosom. 

“Ah! with me? — But that is yet to be determined. 
You know not yet.” 

“ What ! are you not mine ? Do I not feel you in my 
arms ? do I not embrace you ?” 

“ It may be that you embrace death, Beauchampe ! r ’ 

“ Speak not so gloomily, my love. Why should you 
yield yourself to such vague and nameless apprehensions ? 
There is nothing to cloud our prospect, which, when I think, 
seems all bright and cloudless as the night we gaze on !” 

“ Ah ! when you think , Beauchampe : but thought is no 
seer, though an active speculator. You forget these in- 
stincts, Beauchampe — these presentiments!” 

“ I have forgotten mine,” he answered, livelily. 

“ Ah ! but mine depart not so soon. They rise still, and 
will continue to rise.” 


228 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ You brood over — you encourage them.’* 

“ No ! but they seem a part of me. I have always had 
them, even in the days of my greatest exultation ; when, in 
truth, I had no cares to suggest them. They have marked 
and preceded, like omens, all my misfortunes. Should I 
not fear them, then ?” 

“ Not now : it is only the old habit of your mind which 
is now active. Gloomy thoughts and complaining accents 
become habitual; and, even when the sun shines, the eye, 
long accustomed to the cloud, still fancies that it beholds 
it gathering blackly in the distance. Now, you are secure. 
Your cloud is gone, dearest — never, never to return.” 

“See where it rises, Beauchampe, an image on the night ! 
How ominous, were these days of superstition, would that 
dark image be of our fortunes ! Even as you spoke, with 
such constant assurance, the evening-star grew faint. Love’s 
own star waned in the growing darkness of the west ; love’s 
own star seemed to shroud itself in gloom at the prediction 
which so soon may be rendered false. Look how fast is 
the ascent of that gloomy tabernacle of the storm ! Not 
one of the lovely lights in that quarter of the sky remains 
to cheer us. Even thus, have the lights of my hope for 
ever gone out. That first light of my soul, which was the 
morning-star of my being — its insane passion for fame — 
was thus obscured. Then, the paler gleams of evening, 
which denoted love ; and how fast, after, followed all that 
troop of smaller lights which betokened the dreams and 
hopes of a warm and throbbing heart! Ah, Beauchampe ! 
faded, stricken out, not one by one, as the joys and hopes 
of others, but with a sudden eclipse that swept all their 
delusive legions at a moment out of sight — never, never to 
return !” 

“ Say not, never I” 

“Ah' it is my fear which speaks — the long sense of 
desolation and dread which has made up so many years of 
my life! — it is this which makes me speak, from a con vie- 


SPECK OF CLOUD ON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 229 

tion of the past, with a dark, prophetic apprehension of the 
future. True, that the love blesses me now — a delusive 
image of which defrauded me before — but how, with the 
sudden rising of that cloud before my eyes, even in the 
hour of your boastful speech and perhaps my no less boastful 
hope — how can I else believe than that another delusion, no 
less fatal than the past, though now untouched with shame, 
has found its way to my heart, beguiling me with hope, only 
to sink me in despair ?” 

“ Ah ! why such speech, Anna ? my love is no delusion,” 
said the husband reproachfully. 

“I meant not that, Beauchampe- — I believe not that. 
Heaven knows I hold it as a truth — and the sweetest 
truth that my soul has ever known in its human experi- 
ence. But for its permanence I feared. I doubted not 
that the light was pure and perfect ; but, alas ! I knew not 
how soon it might go out. I felt that it was a bright star 
shining down upon my soul ; but I also feel that there is a 
gloomy storm rising to obscure the star, and leave me in a 
darkness more complete than ever. 0 Beauchampe ! if we 
should ever meet that man — ” 

“ He dies, Anna !” 

“ Oh, no ! I mean not that.” 

“ Have I not sworn ?” 

“ Yes ! but the exaction of that oath was in my madness 
— it was impious : I shudder but to think of it. May you 
never, never meet with him.” 

“ Amen ! I trust that we may never !” 

“ Could I but be sure of that !” 

“ Let it not trouble you, dearest : we may never meet 
with him.” 

“ Ay, but we may ; and the doubt of that dreadful possi- 
bility, flings a gloomy shadow over the dear, sweet reality 
of the present.” 

“ Be of better cheer, my heart. You are mine. You 
]$:nQw that nothing is le c t for me to learn. You look to niQ 


230 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


for love — you depend not upon the world, but upon me. 
That world, as it can teach me nothing of your value, that 
can make the smallest approach to the certainties which 1 
feel, so it can report nothing in your disparagement which 
your own lips have not already spoken. Why then should 
you fear ? At the worst, we can only sink out of the 
world’s sight when its looks irk, or its tones annoy us.” 

“ Ah ! that is not so easy, Beauchampe. Once out of the 
world’s eye, nothing is so easy as to remain so. But the 
world pursues the person who has challenged its regard ; 
and haunts the dwelling where it fancies it may find a spot 
of shame. Besides, is not your %ime precious to me as well 
as to yourself. This professioii of yours, more than any 
other in our country, is that which concentrates upon itself 
the public gaze. When you have won this gaze, Beau- 
champe, when you have controlled the eager ears of an 
audience, and commanded the admiration of an admiring 
multitude — if, at this moment, some slanderous finger 
should guide the eye of the spectator from the command 
ing eminence of the orator to the form of her who awaits 
him at home, and say, 4 What pity !’ Ah ! Beauchampe ! — ” 

“ Speak of it no more,” said Beauchampe, and there was 
a faintness in his accents while he spoke, that made it cer- 
tain that he felt annoyance from the suggestion. Unwit- 
tingly, she sighed, as her keen instinct detected the feeling 
which her words had inspired. Beauchampe drew her 
closer to him, forced her upon his knee, and sought, by the 
adoption of a tone and words of better assurance, to do 
away with the gloomy presentiments under which her mood 
was evidently and painfully struggling. 

“I tell you, Anna, these are childish fancies! — at the 
worst, mere womanish fears ! Believe me, when I tell you, 
that the days shall now be bright before you. You have 
had your share of the cloud. There is no lot utterly void 
and dark. God balances our fortunes with singular equality. 
None are all prosperous — none are all unfortunate. If the 


SPECK OF CLOUD ON THE SKY OF HAPPINESS. 231 

youth be one of gloom and trial, the manhood is likely to be 
bright and cheerful ; while he, who in youth has known 
sunshine only, will, in turn, most probably be compelled to 
taste the cup of bitterness for which he is wholly unpre- 
pared, It is perhaps fortunate for all to whom the bitter- 
ness of this cup becomes, in youth, familiar. At the worst, 
if still compelled to drink of it, the taste is more certainly 
reconciled to its ungracious flavor. That you have had 
this poisoned chalice commended to your lips in youth, is 
perhaps something of a guaranty that you shall escape the 
draught hereafter. So far from the past, therefore, fling- 
ing its huge dark shadow upon the future, it should be re- 
garded as a solemn background, which, by contrast, shall 
reflect more brightly than were it not present, the gay, 
gladdening lights which shall gather and burn about your 
pathway. I tell you, dearest, I know this shall be the ease, 
.You have outlived the storm — you shall low have sunny 
skies and smooth seas. Neither thi3 beauty which I call 
my own, nor these talents which are so certainly yours, 
shall be doomed to the obscurity to which your unnecessary 
fears would assign them. I tell you I shall yet behold you, 
glowing among, and above, the ambitious circle. I shall 
yet hear the rich words of your song floating through the 
charmed assembly, at once startling the soul and soothing 
the still ear of admiration. Come, come — fling aside this 
shadow from your heart, and let it show itself in ail its 
glory. Look your best smiles, my love- -and- - will you 
not sing me now one of those proud songs, which you sang 
for me the other night — one of these which tell me how 
proud, how ambitious was your genius in the days of you? 
girlhood ? Do not deny me, Anna. Sing for me — smg 
for me one of those songs.” 

She began a strain, though with reluctance, which de- 
clared all the audacious egotism which is usually felt, if not 
always expressed, by the ardent and conscious poet. The 
fame for which she had once yearned — the wild dreams 


232 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


which once possessed her imagination and influenced her 
hope — were poured forth in one of those irregular floods 
of harmony — at once abrupt and musical — which never 
issue from the lips of the mere instructed minstrel. Truly, 
it might have awakened the soul under the ribs of death ; 
and the heart of Beauchampe bounded and struggled with- 
in him, not capable of action, yet full, as it seemed, of a 
most impatient discontent. Wrought up to that enthusi- 
asm of which his earnest nature was easily susceptible, he 
caught her in his arms almost ere the strain was ended, and 
the thought which filled his mind, arising from the admira- 
tion which he felt, was that which told him what a sin it 
would be, if such genius should be kept from its fitting ut- 
terance before admiring thousands. The language of eulogy 
which lie had used to her a few moments before was no 
longer that of hyperbole ; and, releasing her from his 
grasp, while she concluded the strain, he paced the floor 
of the apartment, meditating with the vain pride of an 
adoring lover, upon the sensation which such a song, and so 
sung, would occasion in the souls of any audience. 

The strain ceased. The silence which followed, though 
deep and breathless, was momentary only. A noise of ap- 
proaching horses was heard at the entrance ; and the pre- 
scient heart of the wife sunk within her. She felt as if 
this visit were a foretaste of that world which she feared ; 
and, hurrying up to her chamber, while Beauchampe went 
to the entrance, she endeavored, by a brief respite from the 
trials of reception — and in solitude — to prepare her mind 
for an encounter, the anticipated annoyance from which 
was, however, of a very different character from that to 
which she was really destined. 


THE SNAKE ONCE MORE IN THE GARDEN. 


m 


CHAPTER XXII. 

THE SNAKE ONCE MORE IN THE GARDEN. 

She was not suffered to remain long in suspense. The 
first accents of the strange voice addressing her husband 
at the door, and which reached her ears in her chamber, 
proved the speaker to be no stranger. Fearfully her heart 
sank within her as she heard it. The voice was that of 
Alfred Stevens ! Five years had elapsed since she had 
-heard it last, yet its every tone was intelligible ; clear as 
then ; distinct, unaltered — in every syllable the same utter- 
ance of the same wily assassin of innocence and love ! 

What were her emotions ? It were in vain to attempt to 
describe them — there is no need of analysis. There was 
nothing compounded in them — there was no mystery ! The 
pang and the feeling were alike simple. Her sensations 
were those of unmitigated horror. “ One stupid moment, 
motionless, she stood,” then sunk upon her knees ! Her 
hands were clasped— her eyes lifted to heaven — but she 
could not pray. “ God be with me !” was her only broken 
ejaculation, and the words choked her. 

The trial had come ! Her head throbbed almost to burst- 
ing. She clasped it with her cold hands. It felt as if the 
bony mansion could not much longs 1 ' contain the fermenting 
fwd striving m&r-e within. Yet she had to struggle. It 
was necessary that the firm soul should not yield, an' 1 hers 
was really no feeble one. Striving and struggling to sup- 
press the feeling of horror which every moment threatened 


234 


fttUAtietTAMi'fL 

to burst, she could readily comprehend the relief that nature 
could afford her — could she only break forth in hysterical 
convulsions. But these convulsions would be fatal — not to 
herself — not to life, perhaps, for that was not now a sub- 
ject of apprehension.' It would endanger her secret ! That 
was now her fear. 

To preserve her equilibrium — to suppress the torments 
and the troubles of her soul — to keep Beauchampe from the 
knowledge that the man he had sworn to slay was his 
friend, and was even now a guest upon his threshold — this 
was the important necessity. It was this necessity that 
made the struggle so terrible. 

She shook like an aspen in the wind. Her breast heaved 
with spasmodic efforts that were only not convulsions ; her 
limbs trembled — she could not well walk — yet she could 
not remain where she knelt. To kneel without submission, 
while her soul still struggled with divided impulses, was to 
kneel in vain. The consolation of prayer can only follow 
the calmness of the soul. That was not hers — could not 
be. Yet it was necessary that she should appear calm. 
Terrible trial ! She tottered across the room to the mirror, 
and gazed upon its placid surface. It was no longer placid 
while she gazed. What a convulsion prompted each muscle 
of her face ! The dilation of those orbs, how could that be 
subdued ? Yet it must be done. 

“ Thy hand is upon me now ! — God be merciful!” she 
exclaimed, once more sinking to her knees. 

“ Bitterly now do I feel how much I have offended. Had 
these five years been passed in prayers of penitence rather 
than of pride — in prayers for grace rather than of ven- 
geance — it had not been hard to pray now. Thy hand had 
not been so heavy ! Spare me, Father. Let this trial be 
light. Let me recover strength — give me composure for 
this fearful meeting !” 

She started to her feet. She heard a movement in her 
mother’s apartment That restless old lady, apprized of 


THE SNAKE ONCE MORE IN THE CARDEN. 235 

the arrival of the expected visiters, was preparing to make 
her appearance below. It was necessary that she should 
be forewarned, else she might endanger everything. With 
this new fear, she acquired strength. She hurried to her 
mother’s apartment, and found her at the threshold. The 
impatient old lady, agog with all the curiosity of age, was 
preparing to descend the stairs. 

“ Come back with me an instant,” said the daughter, as 
she passed into the chamber. 

“ What’s the matter with you, Margaret ? You look as 
if your old fits were returning!” 

“ It is likely : there is occasion for them. Know you 
who is below ?” 

“ To be sure I do. Colonel Sharpe and Mr. Barnabas. 
Who but them ?” 

“ Alfred Stevens is below ! Colonel Sharpe and Alfred 
Stevens are the same person!” 

“You don’t say so! Lord, if Beauchampe only knew!” 
exclaimed the old lady, in accents of terror. 

“ And if you rush down as you are, he vrill know !” said 
the daughter sternly. “ For this purpose I came to pre- 
pare you. You must take time and compose yourself. It 
is no easy task for either of us, mother, but it must be done. 
You do not know, for I have not thought it worth while to 
tell you, that, before I consented to marry Beauchampe, I 
told him all — 1 kept no secrets from him.” 

“ You didn’t, sure, Margaret?” 

“ As I live, I did !” 

“ But that was very foolish, Margaret.” 

“No! — it was right — it was necessary. Nothing less 
could have justified me; nothing less could have given me 
safety.” 

“ I don’t see — I think ’twas very foolish.” 

“ Be it so, mother — it is done ; and I must tell you more, 
the better to make you feel the necessity of keeping your 
countenance. Before I became the wife of Beauchampe, he 


236 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


swore to revenge my wrong. He pledged himself before 
Heaven to slay my betrayer whenever tiiey should meet. 
They have met — they are below together!” 

“ Lord have mercy, what a madness was this !” cried the 
old lady, with uplifted hands, and sinking into a char\ II:i 
anxiety to get below was effectually quieted. 

“ It w'as no madness to declare the truth,” said the daugh 
ter gloomily ; “ perhaps it was not even a madness to de 
mand such a pledge.” 

“And you’re going to tell Beauchampe that his intimate 
friend and Alfred Stevens are the same — you’re going to 
have blood shed in the house ?” 

“ No, not if I can help it ! When I swore Beauchampe 
to slay this villain, I was not the woman that I am now. I 
knew not then my husband’s worth. I did not then do jus- 
tice to his love, which was honorable. My purpose now is 
to keep this secret from him, if you do not betray it, and if 
the criminal himself can have the prudence to say nothing. 
From his honor, were that my only security, I should have 
no hope. I feel that he would manifest no forbearance, 
were he not restrained by the wholesome fear of vengeance. 
Even in this respect I have my doubts. There is sometimes 
such a recklessness in villany, that it grows rash in spite 
of caution. I must only hope and pray for the best. Ah ! 
could I pray !” 

Once more did the unhappy woman sink upon her knees. 
She was now more composed. Her feelings had become 
fixed. The necessity of concentrating her strength, and 
composing her countenance, for the approaching trial, was 
sufficiently strong to bring about, to a certain extent, the 
desired results ; and the previous necessity of restraining 
her mother, or at least of preparing her for a meeting, which 
otherwise might have provoked a very suspicious show of 
feeling or excitement, had greatly helped to increase her 
own fortitude and confirm her will. But, from prayer, she 
got no strength. Still she could hot pray. The empty 


Hie snake once more in the garden. 23 f 

words came from the lips only. The soul was still wandei ■ 
ing elsewhere — still striving, struggling in a moral chaos, 
where, if all was neither void nor formless, all was dark, 
indistinct, and threatening. 

But little time was suffered even for this effort. The 
voices from below became louder. Laughter, and occasion 
ally the words and topics of conversation, reached their 
ears. That Alfred Stevens should laugh at such a moment.; 
while she struggled in the throes of mortal apprehension on 
account of him, served to strengthen her pride, and renew 
and warm her sense of hostility. What a pang it was to 
hear, distinctly uttered by his lips, an inquiry, addressed 
to her husband, on the subject of his wife ! What feelings 
of pain and apprehension were awakened in her bosom by 
the simple sounds — 

“ But where’s your wife, Beauchampe ? we must see her, 
you know. You forget the commission which we bear — 
the authority conferred by the club. Unless we approve, 
you know — ” 

What more was said escaped her, but .a few moments 
more elapsed when Beauchampe was heard ascending the 
stairs. She rose from where she knelt, and, bracing her- 
self to the utmost, she advanced and met him at the head 
of the stairs. 

“ Come,” said he, “ and show yourself. My friends won- 
der at your absence. They inquire for you. Where's your 
mother ?” 

“ I will inform her, and she will probably follow me 
down.” 

“ Very good : come as soon as possible, for we must get 
them supper. They have had none.” 

He returned to his guests, and she to her chamber. Her 
mother was weeping. 

“ If you do not feel strong enough, mother, to face these 
visiters to-night, do not come down. I will see to giving 
them supper. At all events, remember how much depends 


238 beauchampe. 

on your firmness. I feel now that 2 shall be strong 
enough ; but I tremble when I think of yen. Perhaps you 
had better not be seen at all. I can plead indisposition 
for you while they remain, which I suppose will only be 
tonight.” 

The mother was undecided what to do. She could only 
articulate the usual lamentation of imbecility, that things 
were as they were. 

“ It was so foolish to tell him anything !” 

The daughter looked at her in silence and sorrow. But 
the remark rather lifted her forehead. It was, indeed, with 
die pride of a high and honorable soul that she exulted in 
the consciousness that she had revealed the truth — that she 
had concealed nothing of her cruel secret from the husband 
who had the right to know. With this strengthening con- 
viction that, if the worst came, she at least had no conceal- 
ments which could do her harm, she descended to the fear- 
ful encounter. 

Never was the rigid purpose of a severe will, in circum- 
stances most trying, impressed upon any nature with more 
inflexibility than upon hers. Every nerve and sensibility 
was corded up to the fullest tension. She felt that she 
might fall in sudden convulsion — that the ligatures which 
her will had put upon brain and impulse might occasion 
apoplexy ; but she felt, at the same time, that every muscle 
would do its duty — that her step should not falter — that 
her eye should not shrink — that no emotion of face, no 
agitation of frame, should effect the development of her fear- 
ful secret, or rouse the suspicions of her husband that there 
was a secret. 

She achieved her purpose ! She entered the apartment 
with the easy dignity of one wholly unconscious of wrong, 
or of any of those feelings which denote the memory of 
wrong. But she did not succeed, nor did she try, to impart 
to her countenance and manner the appearance of indiffer- 
ence. On the contrary, the solemnity of her looks amount 


THE SNAKF ONCE MORE IN THE GARDEN. ;-"-b 

ad to intensity. She could not divest her face of the ten- 
sion which she felt. The tremendous earnestness of the 
encounter — the awful seriousness of that meeting on wnich 
so much depended — if not clearly expressed on her coun- 
tenance, left there at least the language of an impressive^ 
ness which had its effect upon the company. 

Beauchampe was aware of enough to be at no loss to 
account for the grave severity of her aspect. Mr. Barna- 
bas, without knowing anything, at least felt the presence 
of much and solemn character in the eyes that met his own. 
As for Colonel Sharpe, he was too much surprised at meet- 
ing ?o unexpectedly with the woman he had wronged, to 
be at all observant of the particular feelings which her fea- 
tureo seemed to express. 

He started at her entrance. Looking, just then, at his 
wife, Beauchampe failed to note the movement of his guest. 
Sharpe started, his face became suddenly pale, then red ; 
and his eyes involuntarily turned to Beauchampe, as if in 
doubt and inquiry. His conge, if he made any, was the 
result of habit only. Never was guilty spirit more suddenly 
confounded, though perhaps never could guilty spirit more 
rapidly recover from his consternation. In ten minutes 
after, Colonel Sharpe, alias Alfred Stevens, was as talkative 
as ever — as if he had no mortifications to apprehend, no 
conscience to quiet : but, when the eyes of Beauchampe and 
Barnabas were averted, his might be seen to wander to the 
spot where sat the woman he had wronged ! 

What was the expression in that glance ? What was the 
secret thought in the dishonorable mind of the criminal ? 
Though momentary only, that glance was full of intelli- 
gence : but the recognition which it conveyed found no 
response from hers; though — not unfrequently, at such 
moments — as if there were some fascination in his eyes, 
they encountered those of the person whom they sought, 
keenly fixed upon them ! 


240 


V E A.UCH AM/ $■. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

THE BITTER PARLE. 

And thus, after five long years of separation — ycan> of 
triumph on the one hand, years of degradation and despera- 
tion on the other — they met, the destroyer and his victim. 
The serpent had once more penetrated into the garden. Its 
flowers had been renewed. Its Eden, for a brief moment, 
appeared to be restored. If the sunshine was of a subdued 
and mellowed character, it was still sunshine ! Alas for 
the woman ! she gazed upon her destroyer, and felt that 
the whole fabric of her peace was once more in peril. She 
saw before her the same base spirit which had so profli- 
gately triumphed in her overthrow. She felt, from a single 
glance, that he had undergone no change. There was an 
expression in his look, when their eyes encountered, which 
annoyed her with the familiarity of its recognition. She 
turned from it with disgust. 

“ At all events,” she thought, “ he will keep his secret ; 
lie will not willingly incur the anger of a husband. A day 
will free us from his presence, and the danger will then 
pass for ever!” 

Filled with doubts, racked with apprehension, but still 
succored by this hope, the woman yet performed the duties 
of the household with a stern resoluteness that was admi- 
rable. No external tokens of her agitation were to be 
seen. Her movements were methodical, and free from all 
precipitation. Her voice, though the tones were low, was 


THE BITTER PARLE. 


241 


clear, distinct, and she spoke simply to the purpose. Even 
her enemy felt, or rather exercised, a far less degree of 
coolness and composure. His voice sometimes faltered as 
he gazed upon, and addressed her ; and there was, at mo 
ments, a manifest effort at ease and playfulness, which the 
ready sense of Beauchampe himself did not fail to discrimi- 
nate. It was something of a startling coincidence that, after 
fighting with William Calvert about Margaret Cooper, he 
should, the very next night, be the favored guest of her 
husband ! Colonel Sharpe brooded over the fact with some 
superstitious misgivings ; but the progress of supper soon 
made him forgetful of his fears, if he had any ; and, before 
the evening was far advanced, he had recovered very much 
of his old composure. 

When the supper-tilings were removed, Mr. Barnabas 
brought up the subject of horses, in order, as it would seem, 
to advert to the condition of his favorite roan, which had 
struck lame that evening on their way from Bowling-Green. 
The question was a serious one whether he suffered from 
snag, or nail, or pebble ; and the worthy owner concluded 
his speculations by declaring his wish, at an early moment, 
to subject the animal to fitting inspection. Beauchampe 
rose to attend him to the stables. 

“ Will you go, colonel ?” asked Mr. Barnabas. 

“ Surely not,” was the reply. “ My taste does not lie 
that way. I will remain with Mrs. Beauchampe, in the 
hope to perfect our acquaintance.” 

The blood rose in the brain of the person spoken of ; her 
heart strove to suppress the rising feeling of indignation. 
At first, her impulse was to rise and leave the room. But 
the next moment determined her otherwise. A single re- 
jection convinced her that there would be no good policy 
in such a movement — that it would be equivalent to a con- 
fession of weakness, which she did not feel; and she was 
resolved that her feelings of aversion should not give her 
cr 3m y such an advantage over her* 

11 


242 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ He must be met, at one time or other ; and perhaps the 
sooner the issue is over, the better.” 

This reflection passed through her mind in very few sec 
ouds. They were now alone together. The lantern, which 
the servant carried before Beauchampe and Mr. Barnabas, 
was already flickering faintly at a distance as seen through 
the window-pane beside her, when Colonel Sharpe started 
from his seat, and approached her. 

“Can it be that I again see you, Margaret?” he ex- 
claimed; “have my prayers been granted — am I again 
blessed with a meeting with one so dearly loved, so long 
and bitterly lamented ?” 

“ You see the wife of Orville Beauchampe, Colonel 
Sharpe !” was the expressive reply. 

“ Nay, Margaret, it is my misfortune that you are his 
wife, or the wife of any man but one. Hear me — for I 
perceive that you think that I have wronged you — ” 

“ Think, sir, think ! — but no more of this !” was her in- 
dignant answer, as she rose from her chair and prepared to 
leave the room ; “ it can matter little to you, sir, what my 
thoughts of your conduct and character may be, as it is 
now small matter to me what they ever have been. It is 
enough for you to know that you are the guest of my hus- 
band ; and that, in his ignorance of your crime, lies your 
only safety. A word from me, sir, brings down his ven- 
geance upon your head! You yourself best know whether 
that is to be feared or not.” 

“ But you will not speak that word, Margaret !” 

“ Will I not ?” she exclaimed, while a fiery scorn seemed 
to gather in her eyes. 

“ No, Margaret, no ! I am sure you can not. For "he 
Sake of the past, you will not.” 

“ Be not so sure of that ! It is for the sake of the futu 
that I am Silent. Were it for the past only, Alfred Stevens, 
not only should my lips Speak, but my hands act. I si vuld 
not ask of him to avenge ine : my own arm should rigid ray 


THE BITTER PARLE. 


248 


wrong ; my own arm should, even now, be uplifted in the 
work of vengeance, and you should never leave this house 
alive !” 

He smiled as he replied : — 

“ I know you better, Margaret. If you ever loved — ” 

“Stay, sir — stay, Alfred Stevens — if you would not 
have me so madden as to prove to you how little you have 
known or can know of me ! Do not speak to me in such 
language. Beware — for your own sake, for my sake, I 
implore you to forbear !” 

“For your sake, Margaret — anything for your sake. 
But be not hasty in your judgment. You wrong me — on 
my soul you do ! If you knew the cruel necessity that kept 
me from you — ” 

“0 false !” she exclaimed — “false, and no less foolish 
than false ! Do not hope to deceive me by your base in- 
ventions. I heard all — know all ! I know that I was the 
credulous victim of your subtle arts — that my conquest and 
overthrow was the subject of your dishonest boast. ,, 

“ It is false, Margaret! The villain lied who told -you 
this.” 

“No, Alfred Stevens, no! — he spoke the truth. The 
veracity of the two Ilinkleys was never questioned. But 
your own acts confirmed the story. Why did you not keep 
your promise ? why did you fly ? Where have you been for 
five bitter years, in which I was the miserable mock of those 
whom I once looked on with contempt — the desperate, the 
fearful wretch — on the verge of a madness which, half the 
time, kept the weapons of death within my grasp — which 
I only did not use upon myself, because there was still a 
hope that I should meet with you !” 

“ I am here now, Margaret. If my death be necessary 
to your peace, command it. I confess that I owe you 
atonement, though I am less guilty than you think. Take 
my life, if that will suffice : I offer no entreaty ; I utter no 
complaint.” 


244 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


4 One little month go, Alfred Stevens, and you had not 
needed to make this offer — you had not made it a second 
time in vain. But that time has changed me. Go — live ! 
Leave this house with the morning’s sun, and forget that 
you have ever known me ! Forget, if possible, that you 
know my husband ! It is for his sake that I spare you — 
for his sake I entreat your silence of the past — your utter- 
forgetfulness of him and me.” 

44 For* his sake, Margaret !” he answered with an incred 
ulous smile while offering to take her hand. She repulsed 
him. 

44 No, no, Margaret ! it is impossible that this young man 
can be anything to you. You can not be so forgetful of 
those dear moments, of that first passion, consecrated as it 
was by those stolen joys — ” 

44 Remind me not — man or devil! — remind me not. 
Remind me not of your crime — remind me not of my sworn 
vengeance — -sworn, day by day, every day of bitterness and 
death which I have endured since those dark and damning 
hours. Hark ye, Alfred Stevens !” — her voice here sud- 
denly lowered almost to a whisper — 44 hark ye, you are not 
a wise man ! You are tempting your fate. You are in the 
very den of danger. I tell you that I spare your life, though 
the weapon is shotted — though the knife is whetted. 1 
spare your life, simply, on condition that you depart. Lin- 
ger longer than is absolutely needful — vex me longer with 
these insolent suggestions — and you wake into fury the 
slumbering hatred of my soul, which, for five years, has 
known no moment’s sleep till now. See! — the light re- 
turns — a word — a single word more by way of warning — 
depart by the dawn to-morrow. Linger longer, and you 
may never depart again !” 

44 Why, Margaret, this is downright madness !” 

44 So it is ; and I am mad, and can not be otherwise than 
mad, while you remain here. you not fear that my 
madness will turn upon and rend you/’ 


THE BHTiill carle. 


24 1 


u No!” he said quietly, but earnestly and in subdued 
tones, for the light was now rapidly approaching. “ No. 
Margaret, for I can not believe in such sudden changes from 
love to hate. Besides, if it were true, of what profit would 
it be to take this vengeance ? It would forfeit all the peace 
and happiness which you now enjoy !” 

“ Do I not know it ? Is not this what I would tell you ? 
Do I not entreat you to spare me, for this very reason ? 
To rend and destroy you might gratify my vengeance, but 
it would overthrow the peace of others who have become 
dear to me. I ask you to spare them — to spare me — not 
to provoke me to that desperation which will make me for- 
getful of everything except the wrong I have suffered at 
your hand and the hate I bear you.” 

u But how do I this, Margaret ?” 

“ Your presence does it.” 

“ I can not think you hate me.” 

“ Ha ! indeed ! you can not ? Do not, I pray you, trust 
to that. You deceive yourself. You do ! Leave this 
house with the morrow. Break off your intimacy with 
Beauchampe. Forget me ! Look not at me ! Provoke 
me not with your glance — still less with your accents ; for, 
believe me, Alfred Stevens, I have had but a single thought 
since the day of my dishonor — but a single prayer — and 
that was for the moment and the opportunity when I might 
wash my hands in your blood. Your looks, your words, 
revive the feeling within me. Even now I feel the thirst to 
slay you arising in my soul. I do not speak to threaten. 
To speak, at all, I must speak this language. I obey the 
feeling whatever it may be. Let me then implore you, be 
warned while there is time. Another day, and I may not 
be able to command myself — I can scarcely do so now ; and 
in doing so, the effort is not made in your behalf — not even 
in my own. It is for him — for Beauchampe only. He 
comes — be warned — beware !” 

The approach of the light and the sounds of voices from 


246 


BEaUCHAMPE. 


without, produced their natural effect. They warned the 
offender much more effectually than even the exhortation 
of the woman, stern, vehement, as it was. Nay, he did not 
believe in the sincerity of her speech. His vanity forbade 
that. He could not easily persuade himself of the revolu- 
tion which she alleged her mind to have undergone, in his 
case, from love to hate ; and was not the man to attach any 
very great degree of faith to asseverations of such hostility 
at any time on the part of a creature usually so unstable 
and capricious as he deemed woman to be. It is certain 
that what she said had failed to affect him as it was meant 
to have done. The unhappy woman saw that with an in- 
creased feeling of care and apprehension. She beheld it 
in the leer of confident assurance which he still continued 
to bestow upon her even when the feet of Beauchampe were 
upon the threshold ; and felt it in the half-whispered words 
of hope and entreaty with which the criminal closed the 
conference between them at the same moment. 

Truly bitter was that cup to her at this moment — fear- 
ful and bitter ! Involuntarily she clasped her hands, with 
the action of entreaty, while her eyes once more riveted 
themselves upon him. A meaning smile, which reawakened 
all her indignation, answered her, and then the muscles of 
both were required to be composed and inexpressive, as the 
husband once me re stood between them. 


THE BUND SEEKER AFTER FATE. 


• 247 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE BLIND SEEKER AFTER FATE. 

The necessity of the case brought a tolerable composure 
to the countenances of both the parties as Beauchampe and 
his companion re-entered the room. An instant after, the 
wife left it and hurried up to her chamber. Beauchampe’s 
eye followed her movements curiously. In truth, knowing 
the dread and aversion which she had avowed, at mingling 
again in society, he was anxious to ascertain how she had 
borne herself in the interview with his friend. 

“ Truly, Beauchampe,” said the latter, as if in answer to 
his thoughts, “your wife is a very splendid woman.” 

“ Ah ! do you like her ? Did she converse freely with 
you ? She speaks well, but does not like society much.” 

“ Very — she has a fine majestic mind. Talks admirably 
well. Did you meet with her here ?” 

“ Yes,” said the other, though with some hesitation. 
“ This farm upon which we live is her mother’s.” 

“ Her mother ! ah ! wdiat was her maiden-name, Beau- 
champe ? I think you mentioned it in your letter, but it es- 
capes me now ?” 

“ Cooke : Miss Anna Cooke.” 

“Cooke, Cooke — I wonder if she is of the Cookes of 
Sunbury ? I used to know that fafSfcly.” 

“I think — I believe not — I am not sure, however. I 
really can not say.” 

The reply of Beauchampe was made with some trepida 


24 8 * 


BEAUCttAMPE. 


tion. The inquiry of Sharpe, which had been urged very 
gravely, aroused the only half-latent consciousness of the 
husband, who began to feel the awkwardness of answering 
any more particular questions. Sharpe did not perceive 
the anxiety of Beauchampe — he was himself too much ab- 
sorbed in the subject of which he spoke. 

44 Your wife is certainly a very splendid woman in per 
son, Beauchampe ; and her mind appears to be original and 
well informed. But she seems melancholy, Beauchampe ; 
quite too much so, for a newly-made bride. Eh ! what can 
be the matter ?” 

44 She has had losses — misfortunes — her mother, too, is 
an invalid, and she has been compelled to be a watcher for 
some time past.” 

44 And how long have they been neighbors to your mother ? 
If I recollect, you never spoke of them before ?” 

44 You forget, I have been absent from home some years,” 
replied Beauchampe evasively. 

44 True ; I suppose they have come into the neighborhood 
within that time ? You did not know your wife in boyhood, 
did you ?” 

44 No — I did not. I never saw her till my present visit.” 

44 1 thought not ! Such a woman is not to be passed over 
with indifference. Her person must attract — and her in- 
tellect must secure and fascinate. I should say no man 
was ever more fortunate in his choice. What say you, Bar- 
nabas ? We must give Beauchampe a certificate ?” 

44 1 suppose so, if you say so^ but I can only judge of 
Mrs. Beauchampe by appearances. I have had none of the 
chat. I agree with you that she is a splendid woman to 
the eye, and will take your judgment for the rest.” 

44 You will be safe in doing so. But how do you find 
your horse ?” ® 

44 Regularly lame. I’m afraid the cursed brute’s snagged 
or has a nail in his foot. The quick’s touched somehow, for 
he won’t lay the foot t6 the ground.” 


THE BLIND SEEKER AFTER FATE. 


249 


“ That’s bad ! What have you done ?” 

“ Nothing ! We can see to do nothing to-night ; but by 
the peep of day I must be at him. I must have your help, 
Beauchampe — with your soap and turpentine, and what- 
ever else may be good for such a case ?” 

Beauchampe answered with readiness, perhaps rather 
pleased than otherwise that the subject should be changed. 

44 With your permission, then, I will leave you,” said 
Barnabas, 44 and get my sleep while I may. Let your boy 
waken me at dawn, if you please, for I am really anxious 
about the animal. He is a favorite — a nag among a thou- 
sand.” 

44 As every man’s nag is,” said Sharpe. a You can al- 
ways tell a born egotist. He has always the best horse 
and the best gun, the best ox and the best ass, of any man 
in the country. He really believes it. But ask Barnabas 
about the best wife, and ten to one he says nothing of his 
own. He has no boasts, strange to say, about his own rib 
— bone of his bone, and flesh of his flesh.” 

44 You are cutting quite too close,” said Barnabas. 

44 As near to the quick, in your case, as in that of your 
nag.” 

44 Almost ! but the quick in that region is getting callous.” 

44 High time, Barnabas; it has been subject to sufficient 
Induration.” 

“ At all events, I have no dread of your knife ; its edge 
is quite too blunt to do much hurt. Good-night: try it on 
Beauchampe. A young man and a young wife — I have 
very little doubt you can find the quick in him with a little 
probing.” 

The quick in Beauchampe’s case had already been found. 
Good Mr. Barnabas little knew on what delicate ground he 
was trespassing. 

44 A good fellow, that Barnabas,” said Sharpe, 44 but a 
dull one. He really fancies, now, that his nag is a crea- 
ture of great blood and bottom ; and a more sorry jade 

11 * 


260 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


never paddled to a country muster-ground. lie will scarcely 
sleep to-night, with meditating upon the embrocations, the 
fomentations, the fumigations, and whatever else may be 
necessary. But a truce to this, Beauchampe. I have a 
better subject. Seriously, my dear boy, I have never been 
more pleasantly surprised than in meeting with your wife. 
Really, she is remarkably beautiful ; and,- though she is 
evidently shy of strangers, yet, as you know I have the art 
of bringing women out, I may boast of my ability to say 
what stuff she is made of. She speaks with singular force 
and elegance. I have never met with equal eloquence in 
any woman but one.” 

“ And who is she ?” 

“ Nay, I can not tell you that. It is years since I knew 
her, and she is no longer the same being : but your wife 
very much reminds me of her.” 

“ Was she as beautiful as Anna ?” 

“Very near. She was something younger than your 
wife — a slight difference — a few years only ; but the ad- 
vantage, if this were any, is compensated by the superior 
dignity and the lofty character of yours. She I allude to 
— but it matters not now. Enough that your wife brings 
her to my mind as vividly as if the real, living presence 
were before me, whom I once knew and admired, years 
ago.” 

Thus, with a singular audacity, did Colonel Sharpe dally 
with this dangerous subject. He did not this perversely — 
with wilful premeditation. It seemed as if he could not 
well avoid it. Evil thoughts have in them that faculty of 
perversely impelling the mind and tongue which is pos- 
sessed by intoxicating liquors. At moments, the wily as- 
sassin strove to avoid the subject, but he returned to it 
again almost the instant after, even as one who -recoils sud- 
denly from the edge of some unexpected precipice, again 
and again advances once more to gaze, with fascinated 
vision, down into its dim and perilous depths. 


$HE BLIND SEEKER AFTER FATE. 251 

A like fascination did this subject possess over the mind 
of Beauchampe. The feeling of confidence, amounting tc 
defiance, which he expressed to his wife, before their guestc 
had arrived, and whenever the two had spoken of going 
into the world, no longer seemed to sustain him. The mo- 
ment that a stranger’s lip spoke her name, a*'* 3 
ries were made, which are nat' 1 -' 1 
from the lips of fric^' 
of the w'"' 

^uion into 
.ic s life would neces- 
1 et still, with the restlessness 
ne himself incline his ear to the smallest 
„cnce which his companion made to this subject. Ilis 
pride was excited to hear her praises, and the rather bare- 
faced and bald compliments which had been paid to her 
intellect and beauty were dear to him as the lover and the 
worshipper of both. If love be timid, of itself, in the ut- 
terance of eulogium upon the beauties which it admires, it 
is equally certain that no subject, from the lips of another, 
can be more really grateful to its ear. It was perhaps this 
sort of pleasure which Beauchampe derived from the sub- 
ject, and which made him incline to it whenever his com- 
panion employed it. 

Still, in the language of Mr. Barnabas, there was an oc- 
casional touching of the quick in what Sharpe said, at mo- 
ments, under which his sensibilities winced. It was, there- 
fore, with a mixed or rather divided feeling, neither of pain 
nor pleasure, or a compounded one of both, that Beauchampe 
conducted his friend to the chamber which was assigned 
him — returning afterward to his own, in a state of mind 
highly excited, almost feverish — dissatisfied with himself, 
his friend — with every person but his wife. With her he 
had no cause of quarrel. No doubt of her, no sense of 
jealousy, no regret, no apprehension, disturbed that devoted 
passion which made him resolve, under all circumstances, 


Bis Alien a Mck. 


IM 

to link her with his life. If anything, the effect of the 
evening’s interview was to make him look with eyes of 
greater favor upon her taste for privacy, and the life of 
seclusion in which, up to this period, his moments of supe- 
rior happiness had been known. But this subject does not 
concern us now. 

Colonel Sharpe was shown into the same chamber which 
had been allotted to Mr. Barnabas. In our frontier country, 
it need scarcely be stated, that the selfishness which insists 
upon chamber and bed to itself is apt to be practically re- 
buked in a manner the most decided. In Some pai tc, two 
in a bed would be thought quite a liberal arrangement ; and 
may well be thought so, when it is known that four or five 
is not an uncommon number — the fifth man being occasion- 
ally placed crosswise, in the manner of a raft-tie, rather, it 
would seem, to keep the rest from falling out, than with the 
view to making him unnecessarily comfortable. 

Messrs. Sharpe and Barnabas were too well accustomed 
to the condition of country-life to make any scruple about 
that arrangement which placed them in the same apartment 
and couch ; and, under existing circumstances, the former 
was rather pleased with it than otherwise. He had scarce- 
ly entered the room before he carefully fastened the door ; 
listened for the retreating steps of Beauchampe, till they 
were finally lost; and, while Barnabas was wondering at, 
and vainly endeavoring to divine the reason of this mystery, 
he approached the bed where the other lay, and seated 
himself upon it. 

“ You are not asleep, Barnabas ?” he said in a whisper. 

“ No,” replied the other, with tones made rather husky 
by a sudden tremulousness of the nerves. “ No ! what’s 
the matter ?” 

“Matter enough — the strangest matter in the world! 
Would you believe it, that Margaret Cooper — the girl 
whose seduction was charged upon me by Calvert — and 
Bcauchampe’s wife are one and the same person !” 


THE BLIND SEEKER AFTER FATE. 253 

“ The devil they are !” exclaimed the other, in his sur- 
prise rising to a sitting posture in the bed. 

“ True as gospel !” 

“ Can’t be possible, Sharpe !” 

“ Possible, and true. They are the same. I have spoken 
with her as Margaret Cooper ; the recognition is complete 
on both sides. We talked of nothing else while you and 
Beauchampe were at the stables.” 

“ Great God ! how awkward ! What’s to be done ?” 

“ Awkward ? where’s the awkwardness ? I see nothing 
awkward about it. On the contrary, I regard this meeting 
as devilish fortunate. I was never half satisfied to lose her 
as I did, and to find her again is like finding one’s treasure 
when he had given up the hope of it for ever.” 

“ But what do you mean, Sharpe ? Are you really in- 
sensible to the danger ?” 

“ What danger ?” 

“ Why, that she’ll blow you to her husband !” 

“ What wife would do that, d’ye think ? No, no, Bar- 
nabas ; she’s no such fool ! Of course, she kept her secret 
when she married him. She’ll scarcely blab it now.” 

“ But won’t this affair of Calvert get to his ears ?” 

“What if it does? It can do no ^mischief. Had }ou 
listened to my examination of Beauchampe — but you’re a 
dull fellow, Barnabo,s ! Didn’t you hear me ask what his 
wife’s maiden name was? — maiden name, indeed! — Did 
you hear the answer ?” 

“Yes — he said the name was Cooke.” 

“ To be sure he did — Ann, or Anna Cooke — his Anna! 
JIa! ha! ha! -fiTisAnna!” 

“ But don’t laugh so loud, Sharpe ; they’ll hear you and 
suspect.” 

“ Pshaw, you’re timid as a hare in December. Don’t you 
see that she has imposed upon him a false name. Let him 
hear till doomsday of Margaret Cooper and myself, and it 
brings him not a jof nigher to the truth. But, of course. 


254 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


you must tell him of my affair with Calvert, and give the 
political version. He can scarce hear any other version 
from any other source : political hacks will scarcely ever 
deal in truth when a lie may be had as easily, and can serve 
their turn as well. We are representatives of our several 
parties and principles, you know ; treating each other 
roughly — too roughly — without gloves, and, as usual in 
such cases, exchanging shots by way of concluding an ill- 
adjusted argument. There’s no danger of anything, but 
what we please, meeting Beauchampe’s ears about this affair 
with Calvert.” 

“ But, by Jove, Sharpe, this is a d d ticklish situation 

to be in. I’d rather you were not here in his house. I’d 
rather be elsewhere myself.” 

“ You are certainly the most timid mortal. Will you set 
off to-morrow with your lame horse ?” 

“ If he can hobble at all, I will, by Jove ! I don’t like 
the situation we’re in at all.” 

“ And by" Venus, friend Barnabas, if such be your deter- 
mination, you set off alone. I’m not going to give up my 
treasure the moment I find it, for any Beauchampe or Bar- 
nabas of you all. No — no! my most excellent, but most 
apprehensive friend-^- having seen her, how can you think 
it ? But you have neither eyes nor passion. By Heavens, 
Barnabas, Tam all in a convulsion of joy ! I see her before 
me now — those dilating eyes, wild, bright, almost fierce 
in their brightness, like those of an eagle ; those lips, that 
brow, and that full and heaving bosom, whose sweets — ” 

“ Hush ! you are mad ; if you must feel these raptures, 
Sharpe, for God’s sake say nothing about them. They will 
hear you in the adjoining room.” 

“ No — no ! it is your silly fears, Barnabas. I am speak- 
ing in a whisper.” 

“ D — n such whispers, say I. They can be heard by 
keen ears half a mile. But you say you spoke with her — 
what did she sa^ ? Did she abuse you?” 


THE BLIND SEEKEIt AFTER FATE. 


“ No ! indeed 1” 

“ Is it possible — the b— ” 

“ Hush ! hush ! -You do not understand her. Sne i 1 
not abuse me, for of Billingsgate she knows nothing. 
must not think of her as of your ordinary town wenen.3 
She is too proud for any such proceeding. She threatened 
me.” 

“ Ah ! How ?” 

“ With her own vengeance and that of her husband. Told 
me she had the weapon for me ready sharpened, and the 
pistol shotted, and had kept thenr ready for years.” 

“ The Tartar ! and what did you say ?” 

“ Laughed, of course ; and, but for the coming of the 
lantern and the husband, I should have silenced her threats 
by stopping her mouth with kisses.” 

“ You’re a dare-devil, Sharpe, and you’ll have your throat 
cut some day by some husband or other.” 

“ Your whiskers will be gray enough before that time 
comes. You know husbands quite as little as you know 
wives. Now, as soon as Margaret Cooper began to threaten 
me, I knew I was safe.” 

“ Devilish strange sort of security that.” 

“ True and certain, nevertheless. People who threaten 
much seldom perform. But I have even better security than 
this.” 

“ What’s that ?” 

“ She loves me.” 

“ What ! you think so still, do you ? You’re a conceited 
fellow.” 

“ I know it ! That first passion, Barnabas, is the longest 
lived. You can not expel it. It holds on, it lasts longer 
than youth. It is the chief memory of youth. It recalls 
youth, revives it, and revives all the joys which came with 
youth — the bloom, the freshness and the fragrance. Do 
you think that Margaret Cooper can forget that it was my 
lips that first gave birth to the passion of love within her 


BEAUCIiAMPE. 


ico 

bosom — that first awakened its glow, and taught her — 
what before she never knew — that there were joys still 
left to earth, which could yet restore all the fabled bliss of 
Eden? Not easily, mon ami! No, Barnabas — the man 
w r ho has once taught a woman how to love, may be, if he 
pleases, the perpetual master of her fate. She can not 
help but love him — she must obey — and none but a fool or 
a madman can forfeit the allegiance which her heart will 
always be ready to pay to his.” 

“ I don’t know, Sharpe — you always talk these things 
well ; but I can’t help thinking that there’s danger. There’s 
something in this woman’s looks very different from the or- 
dinary run of women.” 

u She is different, so far as superiority makes her differ- 
ent, but the same nature is hers which belongs to all. Love 
is the fate that makes or unmakes the whole world of 
woman.” 

“ Maybe so ; but this woman seems as proud, and cold, 
^nd stately — ” 

“ Masks, my boy — glorious masks, that help to conceal 
as much fire and passion, and tumultuous love, as ever 
flamed in any woman’s breast.” 

<4 She awes me with her looks, and if she threatened you, 
Sharpe, she seems to me the very woman to keep her 
threats.” 

“ If she had not threatened me, Barnabas, I should have 
probably set out to-night.” 

“ It will be a wise step to do so in the morning.” 

“ No — no ! my dear fellow. Neither you nor I go in the 
morning. Fortune favors me ! She has thrown in my way 
the only treasure which I did not willingly throw aside my- 
self, and which I have so long sighed, but in vain, to re- 
cover. Shall I now refuse to pick it up and enshrine it in 
my breast once more? No — no! Barnabas! I am no 
stoic — I am no such profligate insensible !” 

Why, you don’t mean — ” 


TttE BLIND SEEKER AFTER FATE. 26 ? 

The inquiry was conveyed, and the sentence finished by 
a look. 

“ Do I not ! Call me slave, ass, dotard — anything that 
can express contempt — if I do not. And hark ye, Barna- 
bas, you must help me.” 

“ I help you ? I’ll be d d if I do ! What ! to have 

this fellow, Beauchampe, slit my carotid ? Never ! never !” 

“ Pshaw, you are getting cowardly in your old age.” 

“ I tell you this fellow, Beauchampe, is a sort of Mohawk 
when he’s roused.” 

“ And I tell you, Barnabas, there’s no sort of danger — 
none at least to you. All that you will have to do will be 
to get him out of the way. You wish to ride round the 
country —I do not. You wish to try the birds — nay, he 
can even get up an elk-hunt for you. He knows that I 
have no passion for these things, and it will seem natural 
enough that I should remain at home. Do you take ? At 
the worst, I am the offender — and the danger will be mine 
only. But there will be no danger. I tell you that Mar- 
garet Cooper has only changed in name. In all other re- 
spects she is the same. There can be no danger if Beau- 
champe chooses to remain blind, and if you will assist me in 
keeping him so.” 

“ 1 don’t half like it, Sharpe.” 

“ Pshaw ! my good fellow, there’s no good reason why 
you should like or dislike. The simple question is, whether, 
in a matter which will not affect you one way or the other, 
you are willing to serve your friend. That is the true and 
only question. You see for yourself that there can be no 
danger to you. I am sure there’s no danger to anybody. 
At all events, be the danger what it may, and take you 
what steps you please, I am resolved on mine. Reconcile 
to yourself, as you may, the desertion of your friend, in con- 
sequence of a timidity which has no cause whatever of 
alarm.” 

Sharpe rise at this moment, kicked off his boots, and 


258 


§EAUCHAMPE. 


prepared to undress. The effect of a strong will upon a 
feeble one was soon obvious. Barnabas hesitated still, 
hemmed and ha’d, dilated once more upon the danger, 
and finally subsided into a mood of the most perfect com- 
pliance with all the requisitions of his friend. They carried 
the discussion still farther into the night, but that is no 
reason why we should trespass longer upon the sleeping 
hours of our readers. 


THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 




CHAPTER XXV. 

THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 

It was no difficult matter, in carrying out the design of 
Sharpe, to send Barnabas abroad the next morning in charge 
of Beauchampe. Sharpe had a convenient headache, and 
declined the excursion ; proposing, very deliberately, to the 
hushand, to console himself for his absence in the company 
of the wife. 

The latter was not present when the arrangement was 
made. It took place at the stables, after breakfast, while 
they were engaged in the examination of the injured horse 
of Mr. Barnabas ; and this gentleman, with his cicerone , set 
forth from the spot, leaving Sharpe, at his own leisure, to 
return to the house. 

Having seen them fairly off, he did so with the delibera- 
tion of one having a settled purpose. For his reappearance, 
alone, Mrs. Beauchampe was entirely unprepared. As he 
entered the room where 'she was sitting, she rose to leave 
it, though without any symptoms of haste or agitation. He 
placed himself between her and the door, and thus effectu- 
ally prevented her egress. 

She fixed her eye keenly and coldly upon him. 

“ Alfred Stevens,” she said, “ you are trifling with your 
fate.” 

“ Call it not trifling, dear Margaret. You are my fate, 
and I never was more earnest in my life. Do not show 


BEAUCHAMP E. 


-'•* <• « 

A J 

yourself so inflexible. After so long a separation, snch 
coldness is cruel — it is unnatural.” 

“ You say truly,” she replied ; “ I am your fate. I have 
long felt the persuasion that I would be ; and I had pre- 
pared myself for it. Still, I would it were not so. I would 
not have your blood either on mine or the hands of Beau- 
champe. I implored you last night to spare me this neces- 
sity. It is not yet too late. Trifle not with your destiny 
— waste not the moments which are left you. Persevere 
in this course of madness for a day longer, and you are 
doomed! Hear me— believe me! I speak mildly and 
with method. I am speaking to you the convictions of five 
dreary years.” 

. The calm, even, almost gentle manner and subdued ac- 
cents of the woman, had the effect of encouragement rather 
than of warning to the vain and self-deceiving roue. He 
was deceived by her bearing. He was not so profound a 
proficient as he fancied himself in the secrets of a wo- 
man’s heart; and, firmly persuaded of the notion that he 
had expressed to Barnabas, in the conversation of the pre- 
vious night, that women are never so little dangerous as 
when they threaten, he construed all that she said into a 
sort of ruse de guerre , the more certainly to conceal her 
real weakness. 

“ Come, come, Margaret,” he said, “ it is you that trifle, 
not me. This is no time for crimination and complaint. 
Let me atone to you for the past. Believe me, you wrong 
me if you suppose I meant to desert you. I was the victim 
of circumstances as well as yourself — circumstances which 
I can easily explain to you, and which will certainly excuse 
me for any seeming breach of faith. If you ever loved me, 
dear Margaret, it will not be difficult to believe what I am 
prepared to affirm.” 

“ I do not doubt, sir, that you are prepared to affirm 
anything. But I ask yen neither for proofs nor oaths. 
Why should you volunteer them unasked, undesired ? 1 


THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 201 

have no wish to make you add a second perjury to the 
first.” 

“ It is no perjury, Margaret ; and you must hear me. I 
claim it for my own justification.” 

“ I will not hear you, sir ! If you are so well assured of 
your justification, let that consciousness content you. I do 
not accuse — I will not reproach you. Go your ways — 
leave me to mine. Surely, surely, Alfred Stevens, it is the 
least boon that I could solicit at your hands, that, having 
trampled me to the dust in shame —having robbed me of 
peace and pride for ever — you should now leave me, with- 
out further persecution, to the homely privacy which the 
re3t of my life requires.” 

“ Do not call it persecution, Margaret. It is love — love 
only! You were my first love — you shall be my last. I 
can not be deceived, dear Margaret, when I assume that I 
was yours. We were destined for each other; and when 
I recall to your memory those happy hours — ” 

“ Recall them at your peril, Alfred Stevens !” she ex- 
claimed vehemently, interrupting him in the speech ; u recall 
*hem at your peril ! Too vividly black already are those 
moments in my memory. Spare me — spare yourself! Be- 
ware ! be warned in season ! 0 man ! man ! blind and des- 

perate, you know not how nearly you stand on the brink 
of the precipice !” 

He regarded her with eyes full of affected admiration. 

‘ At least, Margaret, whatever may be the falling off in 
your love, your genius seems to be as fresh and vigorous as 
ever. There is the same high poetical enthusiasm in your 
words and thoughts, the same burning eloquence — ” 

fi Colonel Sharpe, these things deceive me no longer. I 
regard them now as the disparaging mockeries of a subtle 
and base spirit, meant to beguile and abuse the confidence 
r a frank and unsuspecting one. I am nojonger unsus- 
pecting. 1 am no longer the blind, vain country-girl, whom 
with ungenerous cunning you could deceive and dishonor 


262 


BEAUCH AMPE. 


Shame and grief, which you ' brought to my dwelling, have 
taught me lessons of truth and humiliation, if not wisdom. 
What you say to me now, in the way of praise, does not 
exhilarate — can not deceive me — and may exasperate! 
Once more I say to you, beware !” 

“ Ah, Margaret ! are you sure that you do not deceive 
yourself also in what you say ? Allow that you care noth- 
ing for praise — allow that your ear has become insensible 
to the language of admiration — surely it can not be insen- 
sible to that of love.” 

“ Love ! — your love !” 

4 4 Yes, Margaret — my love. You were not insensible to 
it once.” 

44 1 implore you not to remind me !” 

44 Ah, but I must, Margaret. Those moments were too 
precious to me to be forgotten ; the memory of those joys 
too dear. Bitter was the grief which I felt when compelled 
to fly from a region in which I had taught, and been learned 
myself, the first true mysteries which I had ever known of 
love. Think you that I could forget those mysteries — 
those joys ? Oh, never ! nor could you ! On that convic- 
tion my hope is built. Wherever I fled, that memory was 
with me still. It was my present solace under every diffi- 
culty — the sweetening drop in every cup which my lip 3 
were compelled to drink of bitter and annoyance. Marga- 
ret, 1 can not think that you did not love me ; I can not 
think that you do not love me still. It is impossible that 
you should have forgotten what we both once knew of rap- 
ture in those dear moments at Charlemont. And having 
loved me then — having given to me the first youthful emo- 
tions of your bosom — you surely can not love this Beaa- 
champe. No, no ! love can not be so suddenly extin 
guished. The altar may have been deserted ; the fire, 
untended, it may have grown dim ; but it is the sacred fir 5 
that can never utterly go out. I can understand, dearest 
^largaret, that it is proper, fiat, having formed these 


THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 263 

ties, you should maintain appearances ; but these appear- 
ances need not be fatal to Love, though they may require 
prudence at his hands. Have no fear that my passion will 
offend against prudence. No, dearest Margaret, the kiss 
will be the sweeter now, as it was among the groves of 
Charlemont, from being stolen in secret/’ 

She receded a few steps while he was yet speaking, and 
at the close sunk into a chair. He approached her. She 
waved him off in a manner that could not be set at naught. 
A burning flush was upon her face, and the compression of 
her lips denoted the strong working of a settled but stifled 
resolution. She spoke at length : — 

“ I have heard yon +o the close, Alfred Stevens. I un- 
derstand you. You speak with sufficient boldness now. 
Would to God you had only declared yourself thus boldly 
in the groves of Charlemont ! Could I have seen then, as 
I do now, the tongue of the serpent, and the cloven foot 
of the fiend, I had not been what I am now, nor would you 
have dared to speak these accursed words in my ears !” 

“ Margaret — ” 

“Stay, sir! I have heard you patiently. The shame 
which follows guilt required thus much of me. You shall 
now hear me /” 

“ Will I not, Margaret ? Ah ! though your words con- 
tinue thus bitter, still it is a pleasure to hearken to your 
words.” 

A keen, quick flash of indignation brightened in her 
eyes. 

“ I suppress,” she said, “ I suppress much more than 1 
speak. I will confine my speech to that which seems only 
necessary. Once more, then, Colonel Sharpe, I understand 
your meaning. I do not disguise from you the fact that 
nothing more is necessary to a full comprehension of the 
foul purposes which fill your breast. But my -reply is ready. 
I can not second them. I hate you with the most bitter 
loathing. T behold you with scorn am} detestation — as a 


264 


BEAUCHAMPE*. 


creature equally malignant and contemptible — as a villain 
beyond measure —as a coward below contempt — as a trai- 
tor to every noble sentiment of humanity — having the mal- 
ice of the fiend without his nobleness, and with every char- 
acteristic of the snake but his shape! Judge, then, for 
yourself, with what prospect you pursue your purpose with 
me, when such are the feelings I bear you — when such are 
the opinions which I hold you in.” 

“ I can not believe you, Margaret !” and his mortified 
vanity showed itself in his angry visage. The truth was 
equally strange and terrible to his ears. 

“ God be witness that I speak the truth !” 

“ Margaret, it is you that trifle with your fate. If, in 
truth, you despise my love, you can not surely despise my 
power. It is now my turn to give you warning. I do not 
threaten, but — beware!” 

She started to her feet, and confronted him with eyes . 
that flashed the defiance of a spirit above all apprehension. 

“ Your power ! your power ! you give me warning — you 
threaten ! Do I rightly hear you ? Speak out ! I would 
not now misunderstand you ! No, no ! never again must I 
misunderstand you ! What is it you threaten ?” 

“ You do misunderstand me, Margaret : I do not threaten. 

I seek to counsel only — to warn you that I have power ; 
and that there can be no good policy in making me your 
enemy.” 

“ You are mine enemy you have ever been my worst 
enemy! Heaven forbid that I should again commit the 
monstrous error of thinking you my friend !” 

“I am your friend, and would be. Nay, more, in spite 
of this scorn which you express for me, and which I can 
not believe, I love you, Margaret, better, far better, than I 
have ever loved woman.” 

“ You have a wife, Colonel Sharpe ?” 

“ Yes — but — ” 

“ And children ?” 


THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 


m 


“ Yes—” 

“For their sakes — I do not plead for myself, nor for 
you— for their sakes, once more I implore you to forbear 
this pursuit. Persecute me no longer. Do not deceive 
yourself with the vain belief that I have any feeling for you 
but that which I now express. I hate and loathe you — nay, 
am sworn, and again swear, to destroy you, unless you de- 
sist — unless you leave me, and leave me for ever!” 

Her subdued tones again deceived him. He caught her 
hand, as she waved it in the utterance of the last sentence. 
He carried it to his lips ; but, hastily withdrawing it from 
his grasp, she smote him upon the mouth in the next in- 
stant, and, as he darted toward her, threw open the drawer 
of a table which stood within arm's length of her position, 
and pulling from it a pistol, confronted him with its muzzle. 
Pie recoiled, more perhaps with surprise than alarm. She 
cocked the weapon, thrust it toward him with all the man- 
ner of one determined upon its use, and with the ease and 
air of one to whom the use of the weapon is familiar. 

There was a pause of a single instant, in which it was 
doubtful whether she would draw the trigger or not — doubt- 
ful even to Sharpe himself. But, with that pause, a more 
human feeling came to her bosom. Her arm sunk — the 
weapon was suffered to fall by her side, and she said, with 
faltering voice : — 

“JPo ! I spare you for the sake of the unhappy woman, 
your wife. Go, sir : it is well for you that I remembered 
her.” 

“ Margaret ! this from you ?” 

“ And from whom with more propriety ? Know, Alfred 
Stevens, that this weapon was prepared for you last night ; 
nay, more, that mine is no inexpert hand in its use. For 
five years, day by day, have I practised this very weapon 
at a mark, thinking of you only as the object upon whom it 
was necessary I should use it. Think you, then, what you 
escape, and return thanks to Heaven that brought to my 

12 


m 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


thought, in the very moment when your life hung upon the 
smallest movement of my finger, the recollection of your 
wife and innocent children! Judge for yourself who has 
most to fear, you or myself.” 

“ Still, Margaret, there is a cause of fear which you do 
not seem to see.” 

“ What is that ?” 

“ Not the loss of life, perhaps. That , I can readily im- 
agine, is not likely to be a cause of much fear with a proud, 
strong-minded woman like yourself. But there are sub- 
jects of apprehension infinitely greater than this, particu- 
larly to a woman, a wife, and to you more than all — your 
husband !” 

u What of my husband ?” 

“ A single word from me to him, and where is your peace, 
your security ? Ha ! am I now understood ? Do you not 
see, Margaret, do you not feel, that I have power, with a 
word, more effectually to destroy than even pistol-bullet 
could do it ?” 

“ And this is your precious thought !” she said, with a 
look of bitter, smiling contempt ; “ and, with the baseness 
which so completely makes your nature, you would lay bare 
to my husband the unhappy guilt in which, through your 
own foul arts, my girlish innocence was lost! What a 
brave treachery would this be!” 

“ Nay, Margaret, but I do not threaten this. I only de 
clare what might be the effect of your provoking me beyond 
patience.” 

“ Oh ! you are moderate — very moderate. I look on 
you, Alfred Stevens, from head to foot, and doubt my eyes 
that tell me I behold a man. The shape is there — the out- 
side of that noble animal, but it is sure a fraud. The beast- 
fiend has usurped the nobler carcass, himself being all the 
while unchanged.” 

“ Margaret, this scorn — ” 

u Is due, not less to your folly than your baseness, as you 


THE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 267 

will see when I have told you all. Know then, that when 
1 gave this hand to Orville Beauchampe — nay, before it 
was given to him, and while he was yet at liberty to re 
uounce it — I told him that it was a dishonored hand.” 

“ You did not ! You could not !” 

“ By the God that hears me, I did. 1 told him the whole 
story of my folly and my shame. Oh ! Alfred Stevens, if in 
truth you had loved me as you professed, you would have 
known that it was not in my nature to stoop to fraud and 
concealment at such a time. Could you think that I would 
avail myself of the generous ardor of that noble youth to 
suffer him, unwittingly, to link himself to possible shame ? 
No — mo! His magnanimity, his love, the warmth of his 
affections, the loftiness of his soul, his genius — all — all de- 
manded of me the most perfect confidence ; and I gave it 
him. I withheld nothing, except, it seems, the true name 
c r my deceiver !” 

“I can not, believe it, Margaret — Beauchampe never 
woihv. have married you with this knowledge.” 

“ On my life, he did. Every syllable was spoken in his 
ears. Nay, more, Colonel Sharpe — and let this be another 
warning to you to forbear and fly — I swore Beauchampe on 
the Holy Evangelists, ere he made my hand his own, to 
avenge my dishonor on my betrayer. I made that the con- 
dition of my hand !” 

. “ And why now would you forbear prosecuting this veil 
geance ? Why, if you were so resolved upon it — why do 
you counsel me to fly from the danger ? Do you mean to 
declare the truth to Beauchampe when I am gone ?” 

“ No ! not if you leave me, and promise me never again 
to seek either me or him.” 

“ No — no ! Margaret, this story lacks probability. I can 
Lot believe it. I am a lawyer, you must remember. These 
inconsistencies are too strong. You swear your husband 
:n ,ne Holy Evangelists to take my life, and the next mo- 
ment shield me from the danger ! Now, the ferocious hate 


268 


BEAUCHAMPE 


which induced the first proceeding can not be so easily 
quieted, as in a little month after, to effect the second. 
The whole story is defective, Margaret — it lacks all prob- 
ability.” 

“ Be it so. You are a lawyer, and no doubt a wise one. 
The story may seem improbable to you, but it is true never- 
theless. However strange and inconsistent, it is yet not 
unnatural. The human ties which bind me to earth have 
grown stronger since my marriage, and, for this reason, if 
for no other, I would have the hands of my husband free 
from the stain of human blood, even though that blood be 
yours ! For this reason I have condescended to expostu- 
late with you — to implore you ! For this reason do I still 
implore and expostulate. Leave me — leave this house the 
moment your friend returns. Avoid Beauchampe as well 
as myself. There are a thousand easy modes for breaking 
off an intimacy. Adopt any one of these which shall seem 
least offensive. Spare me. the necessity of declaring to my 
husband that the victim he is sworn to slay, is the person 
who has pretended to be his friend.” 

The philosophical poet tells us, that he whom God seeks 
to destroy he first renders a lunatic. In the conceit of his 
soul, in the plenitude of his legal subtlety, and with that 
blinding assurance that he could not lose, by any process, 
the affections he had once won, Sharpe persisted in believ 
ing that the story to which he listened, was in truth, noth 
ing more than an expedient of the woman to rid herself 01 
the presence and the attentions which she rather feared 
than disliked. He neither believed that she had told the 
truth to Beauchampe, nor that she loathed him as she had 
declared. Himself of a narrow and slavish mlnd ; he cculd 
not conceive the magnanimity of soul, which, in such a case 
as that of Margaret Cooper, would declare her dishonor t( 
a lover seeking her hand still less was he billing to be- 
lieve in the further stretch of magnanimity, on the part o 
Beauchampe, in marrying any woman in the teeth of sui. 


TtiE SERPENT AT HIS OLD SUBTLETIES. 26 § 

a revelation. We may add, that, with such a prodigious 
degree of self-esteem as he himself possessed, the improba- 
bility was equally great that Margaret should ever cease to 
regard him with the devotedness of love. He had taken 
for granted that it was through the medium of her affec- 
tions that she became his victim, though all his arts were 
made to bear upon other characteristics of her moral nature, 
entirely different from those which belong to the tender 
passion. A vain man finds it easy to deceive himself, if he 
deceives nobody else. Here, then, was a string of improb- 
abilities which it required the large faith of a liberal spirit 
to overcome. Sharpe was not a man of liberal spirit, and 
such men are usually incredulous where the magnanimity 
of noble souls is the topic. Small wits are always of this 
character. Skepticism is their shield and even sevenfold 
coat-of-mail, and incredulity is the safe wisdom of timidity 
and self-esteem. Sucli men neither believe in their neigh- 
bors or in the novel truths which they happen to teach. 
They pay the penalty in most cases by dying in their blind- 
ness. 

Will this be the case with the party before us ? Time 
will show. At all events, the earnest adjurations of the 
passionate and full-souled woman were entirely thrown away 
upon him. What she had said had startled him at first ; 
but with the usual obduracy of self-esteem, he had soon 
recovered from his momentary discomposure. He shook 
his head slowly, while a smile on his lips declared his 
doubts. 

“ No, Margaret, it is impossible that you should have told 
these things to Beauchampe. I know you better, and I 
know well that he could never have married you, having a 
knowledge of the truth. You can not deceive me, Marga- 
ret, and wherefore should you try ? Why would you re- 
ject the love which was so dear to you in Charlemont ; and 
if you can do this, / can not ? I love you too well, Marga- 
ret — remember too keenly the delights of our first union 


270 


feEAtJCHAMl’E. 


and will not believe in the necessity that denies that we 
should meet. No — no ! Once found, I will not lose you 
again, Margaret. You are too precious in my sight. We 
must see and meet each other often. Beauchampe shall 
still be my friend — his marriage with you has made him 
doubly dear to me. So far from cutting him, I shall find 
occasions for making his household a place of my constant 
pilgrimage ; and do not sacrifice yourself by vain opposition 
to this intimacy. It will do no good and may do harm. I 
can make his fortune ; and I will, if you will hear reason. 
But you must remove to Frankfort — be a dutiful wife in 
doing so ; and — for this passion of revenge — believe that 
I was quite as much afflicted as yourself by the necessity 
that tore us asunder — as was the truth — and you will for 
give the involuntary crime, and forget everything but the 
dear delights of that happy period. Do you hear me, Mar 
garet — you do not seem to listen !” 

She regarded him with a countenance of melancholy 
scorn, which seemed also equally expressive of hopelessness 
and pity. It seemed as if she was at a loss which senti 
ment most decidedly to entertain. Looking thus, but in 
perfect silence, she rose, and taking the pistol from the 
table where it had lain, she advanced toward the door of 
the apartment. He would have followed her, but she 
paused when at the door, and turning, said to him : — 

“ If I knew, Colonel Sharpe, by what form of oath I 
could make you believe what 1 have said, I would assev- 
erate solemnly its truth. I am anxious for your sake, for 
my sake, and the sake of my husband, that you should be- 
lieve me. As God will judge us all, I have spoken nothing 
but the truth. I would save you, and spare myself the 
necessity of any further revelations. Life is still dear to 
me — peace is everything to me now. It is to secure this 
peace that I suppress my feelings — that I still implore you 
to listen to me and to believe. Be merciful. Spare me \ 
Spare yourself. Propose any form of oath which you coo 


THE SERPENT AT HIS Out) SUBTLETIES. 2T1 

sider most solemn, most binding, and I will repeat it on my 
knees, in confirmation of what I have said ! for on my soul 
I have spoken nothing but the truth !” 

He laughed and shook his head, as he advanced to where 
she stood. 

“ Nay, nay, Margaret — the value of oaths in such cases 
is but small. No form of oath can be very binding. Jove, 
you know, laughs at the perjuries of lovers ; and if we are 
lovers no longer — which I can not easily believe — the 
business between us, is so certainly a lover’s business, that 
Jove will laugh none the less at the vows we violate in car- 
rying it on. You take it too seriously, Margaret — it is 
you that are not wise. You can not deceive me — you are 
wasting labor.” 

She turned from him mournfully, with a single look, and 
in another moment was gone from sight. 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

DOOMED. 

Mr. Barnabas and Beauchampe returned from their 
morning ride in excellent spirits ; but there was some anx- 
iety and inquiry in the look of the former as his eye sought 
that of his confederate. He gathered little from this scru- 
tiny, however, unless it were the perfect success of the 
latter in the prosecution of his criminal object. The face 
and manner of Colonel Sharpe wore all the composure and 
placid satisfaction of one equally at peace with all the 
world and his own conscience. His headache had sub- 
sided. He seemed to have nothing on his mind to desire 
o? to regret. 

“ Lucky dog!” was the mental exclamation of his satel- 
lite. “ He never fails in anything he undertakes. He does 
as he pleases equally with men and women.” 

Beauchampe had his anxieties also, which were a little 
increased as he noted a greater degree of sadness on his 
wife’s countenance than usual. But his anxiety had no 
relation whatever to the real cause of fear — to the real 
source of that suffering which appeared in her looks. Not 
the slightest suspicion of evil from his friend Colonel Sharpe 
had ever crossed his mind, even for an instant. 

Dinner came off, and Colonel Sharpe was in his happiest 
;ein. His jests were of the most brilliant order; but, un- 
less in the case of Mr. Barnabas, his humor was not conta- 


DOOMED. 


273 


gious. Mrs. Beaucliampc scarcely seemed to hear what 
was addressed to her ; and Beauchampe, beholding the 
increasing depth of shade on his. wife’s countenance, neces- 
sarily felt a corresponding anxiety, which imparted similar 
shadows to his own. 

At dinner, Mr. Barnabas said something across the table 
to his companion, in reference to the probable time of de- 
parture. 

“ What say you — shall we ride to-morrow?” 

“ Why, how’s your nag ?” 

“ Better ; not absolutely well, but able to go, when going 
homeward.” 

“ You may go,” said Sharpe, abruptly ; “ but I shall make 
a week of it with Beauchampe. The country, you say, is 
worth seeing, and there may be votes to be won by showing 
one’s self. I see no reason even for you to hurry ; and I 
dare say Beauchampe’s hospitality will scarcely complain 
of our trespass for two days longer.” 

The speaker looked to Beauchampe, who, as a matter of 
course, professed his satisfaction at the prospect of keeping 
his friends. The eye of Sharpe glanced to the face of the 
lady. A dark-red spot was upon her forehead. She met 
the glance of her enemy, and requited it with one of deep 
significance ; then, rising from the table, at once left the 
apartment. 

The things were removed, and Mr. Barnabas, counselled 
by a glance from his companion, proposed to Beauchampe 
to explore the farm. 

“I can’t bear the house when I can leave it — that is, 
when Fin in the country. A country-house seems to me an 
intolerable bore. Won’t you go, Sharpe ?” 

But the person addressed had already disposed himself 
in the rocking-chair, as if for the purpose of taking a nap. 
He answered, drowsily : — 

“ No, no, Barnabas ; take yourself off! I would enjoy my 
siesta merely. With you, I should be apt to sleep soundly 


274 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


Take him off, Beaucliampc, aud suffer me to make myself 
at home.” 

“ Oh, certainly, if you prefer it.” 

“I do! I take the world composedly — detest sight- 
seeing, and believe in Somnus. This habit of mine keeps 
me out of mischief, into which Barnabas is for ever falling 
Away, now, my good boys, and enjoy the world and one 
another !” 

The roue was alone. Ten minutes had not passed, when 
Mrs. Beaucliampc re-entered the apartment. This was an 
event which Colonel Sharpe had scarcely anticipated. He 
had remained, simply to be in the way of what he would 
esteem some such fortunate chance ; hoped for it ; and, be- 
lieving that the lady was playing only a very natural femi- 
nine game, did not think it improbable that the desired 
opportunity would be afforded him. So early a realization 
of his wishes was certainly unexpected — not undesired, 
however. The surprise was a pleasurable one, and he 
started into instant vivacity on her appearance, rising from 
* his seat and approaching her with extended hand as if to 
conduct her to it. 

“ Stay, Colonel Sharpe ! I come but for a moment.” 

“ Do not say so, Margaret.” 

“ A moment, sir, will suffice for. all that I purpose. You 
speak of remaining here till the close of the week ? Now, 
hear me ! Your horses must be saddled after breakfast to- 
morrow. You must then depart. I must hear you express 
this determination when we meet at the breakfast-table. If 
you do not, sir — on the word of a woman whom you have 
made miserable, and still keep so, I shall declare to Mr. 
Beauchampe the whole truth !” 

“ What! expel me from your house, Margaret? No, no ! 
I as little believe you can do this as do the other. This, 
my dear girl, is the merest perversity !” 

lie offered to take her land. She recoiled. 

“Colonel Sharpe, your unhappy vanity deceives you 


DOOMED. 


275 


What do you see in my looks, my conduct, to justify these 
doubts of what I say, or this continued presumption on your 
part ? Do I look the wanton ? do I look the pliant damsel 
whose grief is temporary only — which a smile of deceit, or 
a cunning word, can dissipate in a moment ? Look at me 
well, sir. My peace, and your life, depend upon the wis- 
dom which Heaven at this moment may vouchsafe you. Oh, 
sir, be not blind ! See, in these wobegone cheeks and eyes, 
nothing but the misery, approaching to despair, which my 
bosom feels ! See, and be warned ! You can not surely 
doubt that I am in earnest. For the equal sake of your 
body and soul, I implore you to believe me !” 

Cassandra never looked more terribly true to her utter- 
ance — to the awful predictions which her lips poured forth 
— but, like Cassandra, Margaret Cooper was fated not to 
be believed. The unhappy man, blinded by that flattering 
self-esteem which blinds so many, was insensible to her 
expostulations — to the intense wo, expressing itself in 
loose oi he most severe majesty, of her highly-expressive 
countenance. 

The effect of nor intensity of feeling was to elevate the 
style of her beauty, and this was something against the 
success of her entreaty. Yain and dishonorable as he was, 
Sharpe gazed on her with a sincere admiration. Unhap- 
pily, he was not one to venerate. That refining agent of 
moral worship was wanting to his heart ; and in its place a 
selfish lust after die pleasures of the moment was the only 
divinity which he had set up. 

It would be idle to repeat his answer to the imploring 
prayer of the half-distracted woman. He had as little 
generosity as veneration : he could not forbear. His mind 
had become inflexible, from the too frequent contemplation 
of itG lusts ; and what he said was simply what might have 
been said by any callous, clever man, who, in the prosecu- 
tion of a selfish purpose, regards nothing but the end in 
view. He answered with pleasantry that we which was 


276 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


so much more expressively shown in her looks than in her 
utterance. Pleasantry at such a moment! — pleasantry 
addressed to that painfully-excited imagination, whose now- 
familiar images were of death, and despair, and blood ! She 
answered him by clasping her hands together. 

“ We are doomed !” she exclaimed, while a groan forced 
its way, at the close of her sentence, as if from the very 
bottom of her heart. 

“ Doomed, indeed, Margaret! How very idle, unless 
you doom us !” 

“ And I do ! You are doomed, and doomed by me, Al- 
fred Stevens, unless you leave this house to-morrow !” 

“ Be sure I shall do no such thing !” 

“ Your blood be upon your own head ! I have warned 
you, counselled you, implored you — I can do no more!” 

“ Yes, Margaret, you can persuade me, beguile me, rub- 
due me — make me your captive, slave, worshipper, every 
thing — as you have done before — by only lovimr in 3 ae 
you did then. Be not foolish and perverse. Com^ i: me : 
let us renew those happy hours that we knew in Chari 0- 
mont, when you had none of these gloomy notions to affright 
others and to vex yourself with !” 

“ Fool ! fool ! Blind and vain ! With sense neither to 
see nor to hear ! — Alfred Stevens, there is yet time ! But 
the hours are numbered. God be merciful, so that they be 
not yours! We meet at the table to-morrow morning for 
the last time.” 

“ Stay, Margaret !” he exclaimed, seeing tier about to 
leave the room. 

“ To-morrow morning for the last time !” she repeated, 
as she disappeared from sight. 

“Devilish strange! But they are all so — perverse as 
the devil himself! There is nothing to be done here by 
assault. We must have time, and make our approaches 
with more caution. My desertion sticks in her gorge. I 
must mollify her on that score. Work slowly, but surely 


bOOMfct). 


277 


I have been too bold — too confident. I did not make suf- 
ficient allowances for her pride, which is diabolically strong. 
I must ply her with the sedatives first. But one would 
have thought that she had sufficient experience to have 
taken the thing more coolly. As for her blabbing to Beau- 
champe, that's all in my eye ! No, no, you can not terrify 
me by such a threat. I am too old a stager for that : nay, 
indeed, how much of your wish to drive me off arises from 
your dread that I shall blab ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! but you too 
shall be safe from that. My policy is ‘ mum,’ like your 
own. To be frightened off by such a threat would prove a 
man as sorry a fool as coward. We sha’n’t go to-morrow, 
fair Mistress Margaret, doom or no doom !” 

Such were the muttered meditations of Colonel Sharpe 
after Mrs. Beauchampe had left him. Perhaps they were 
such as would be natural to most men of the same charac- 
ter. His estimate of the woman, also, was no doubt a very 
just estimate of the ordinary woman of the world, placed 
in similar circumstances, after having committed the same 
monstrous and scarcely remediable lapse from virtue and 
place. 

But we have shown that Margaret Cooper was no ordi 
nary woman ! He knew that , himself ; but he did not be- 
lieve her equal to the purpose which she threatened, nor 
did he believe her when she informed him of the magnani- 
mous course which she had already pursued in relation to 
Beauchampe. Could he have believed that , indeed ? 

But it was not meant that he should believe. The des- 
tiny that shapes our ends was not to be diverted in his case. 
As his victim had declared, with solemn emphasis, on leav 
ing him, he was, indeed, doomed — doomed — doomed! 


278 


BfiAtfCttAMPE. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

BITTER TEARS OF PREPARATION. 

We pass, with hurried progress, over the proceedings of 
that night. The reader will please believe that Colonel 
Sharpe was, as usual, happy in his dialogue, and fluent in 
his humor. Indeed, by that strange contradiction in the 
work of destiny, which sometimes so arranges it that death 
does the work of tragedy in the very midst of the marriage 
merriment, the spirits of the doomed man were never more 
elastic and excitable than on that very night. He and 
Barnabas kept his host, till a late hour, from his couch. 
The sounds of their laughter penetrated the upper apart- 
ments, and smote mournfully upon the ears of the unhappy 
wife, to whom all sounds, at that moment, came laden with 
the weight of wo. One monotonous voice rang through her 
senses and the house, as in the case of Macbeth, and cried, 
“ Sleep no more !” Such, at least, was the effect of the 
cry upon her. Precious little had been her sleep, in that 
house, from the moment that bad man entered it. Was she 
ever to sleep again ? She herself believed not. 

The guests at length retired to their chamber, and Beau- 
cliampe sought his. At his approach, his wife rose from 
her knees. Poor, striving, struggling, hopeless heart ! she 
had been laboring to beat down thought, and to wrestle 
with prayer. But thought mingled with prayer, and ob- 
tained the mastery. Such thoughts, too — such thoughts 
^f the terrible necessity before her! 


S'A’i KH ‘TELFtS OF prep a ration. 279 

Oh, how criminal was the selfish denial c? that man! 
Life had become sweet and precious. Her husband had 
grown dear to her in proportion as he convinced her that 
she was dear to him. Permitted to remain in their obscu- 
rity, life might still be retained, and would continue, with 
length of days, to become more and more precious. But 
the destroyer was there, unwilling to spare — unwilling to 
forego the ravages he had began. Not to tell her husband 
the whole truth — to listen to the criminal any longer with- 
out denouncing him — would not only be to encourage him 
in his crime, but to partake of it. If he remained another 
day, she was bound by duty, and sworn before the altar, to 
declare the truth ; and the truth, once told, was only an- 
other name for utter desolation — blood upon the hands, 
death upon the soul ! With such thoughts, prayer was not 
possible. But she had striven in prayer, and that was 
something. Nay, it was something gained, even to think 
in the position of humility — upon her knees. 

She rose, when she heard her husband approach — took 
a book, and seating herself beside the toilet, prepared to 
read. She composed her countenance, with a very decided 
effort of will, so as to disperse some of the storm-clouds 
which had been hanging over it. Her policy was, at pres- 
ent, not to alarm her husband’s suspicions, if possible, in 
relation to her guests. It might be that Sharpe would 
grow wiser with the passage of the night. Sleep, and 
quiet, and reflection, might work beneficial results; and if 
he would only depart with the morning, she trusted to time 
and to her own influence over Beauchampe, to break off the 
intimacy between the parties without revealing the fatal 
truth. 

“What! not abed, Anna ?” said Beauchampe. “It is 
late ; do you know the hour ! It is nigh one !” 

“ Indeed, but I am not sleepy.” 

“Iam; what with riding and rambling with Barnabas I 
am completely knocked up Besides, he is such a dull fel 


280 


liEAOCHAMPE. 


low. Now Sharpe has wit, humor, and other resources, 
which make a man forgetful of the journey and the progress 
of time.” 

44 Has Colonel Sharpe said anything about going ?” de- 
manded the wife with some abruptness. 

« Yes—” 

“ Ah !” — with some eagerness — “ when does he go V 9 

“ At the close of the week. He is disposed to see some- 
thing of the neighborhood.” 

She drew a long breath, scarcely suppressing the deep 
sigh which struggled for utterance ; and once more fixed 
her eyes on the book. It need not be said that she read 
nothing. 

“ Come to bed, dearest,” said Beauchampe tenderly ; “ you 
hurt your eyes by night reading. They have been looking 
red all day.” 

She promised him, and, overcome with fatigue, the hus- 
band soon slept, but the wife did notarise. For more than 
two hours she sat, the book still in her hands ; but her 
eyes were unconscious of its pages, her thoughts were not 
in that volume. She thought only of that coming morrow, 
and the duties and dangers which its coming would involve. 
She was seeking to steel her mind with the proper resolu- 
tion, and this was no easy effort. 

Imagine the task before her — and the difficulty in the 
way of acquiring the proper hardihood will easily be under- 
stood. Imagine yourself preparing for the doom which is 
to follow r in twelve hours ; and conjecture, if you can, the 
sort of meditations which will come to you in that dreary 
but short interval of time. Suppose yourself iD health, too 
- -young, beautiful, highly endowed, intensely ambitious, 
with the prospect — if those twelve hours can be passed in 
safety — of love, long life, happiness, and possibly, 44 troops 
of friends” all before you, smiling, beckoning, entreating 
in the sunny distance ! Imagine all this in the case of that 
proud, noble-hearted, most lovely, highly intellectual, but 


BITTER TEARS OF PREPARATION. *231 

wo-environed woman, and you will not wonder that she did 
not sleep. Still less will it be your wonder that she could 
not pray. Life and hope were too strong for sufficient hu- 
mility. The spirit and the energy of her heart were not yet 
sufficiently subdued. 

Dreary was the dismal watch she kept — still in the one 
position. At length her husband moved and murmured in 
his sleep. In his sleep he called her name, and coupled 
with it an endearing epithet. Then the tide flowed. The 
proper chords of human feeling were stricken in her heart. 
The rock gushed. It was stubborn no longer. But the 
waters were bitter, though the relief was sweet. Bitter 
were the tears she wept, but they were tears, human tears ; 
and like the big drops that relieve the heat of the sky and 
disperse its unbreathing vapors, they took some of the 
mountain pressure from her heart, and left her free to 
breathe, and hope, and pray. 

She rose and stepped lightly beside the bed where Beau- 
chainpe slept. She hung over him. Still he murmured in 
his sleep. Still he spoke her name, and still his words 
were those of tenderness and love. Mentally she prayed 
above him, while the big drops fell from her eyes upon the 
pillow. One sentence alone became audible in her prayer 

— that sentence of agonizing apostrophe, spoken by the 
Savior in his prescience of the dreadful hour of trial which 
was to come : “ If thou be willing, Father, let this cup pass 
by me !” 

She had no other prayer, and in this vain and useless 
repetition of the undirected thoughts, she passed a sad and 
comfortless night. But she had been gaining strength. A 
stern and unfaltering spirit — it matters not whence derived 

— came to her aid, and with the return of sunrise she arose, 
with a solemn composure of soul, prepared, however gloom- 
ily, to go forward in her terrible duties. 




BEAUCHAMPJg. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 

THE BOLT SPED. 

Beauchampe rose refreshed and more cheerful than usual, 
The plans for the day, which had been discussed by him- 
self and friends the previous night, together with the lively 
dialogue which had made them heedless of the progress of 
the hours, were recalled to his memory, and he rose with 
an unwonted spirit of elasticity and humor. 

But the lively glance of his eye met no answering pleas- 
ure in that of his wife. She was up before him. He did 
not dream that she had not slept — that for half the night 
she had hung above his sleep engaged in mental prayer that 
such slumbers might still be spared to him, even if the 
dreary doom of such a watch was still allotted to her. lie 
gently reproached her for the settled sadness in her looks, 
and she replied only by a sigh. He did not notice the in- 
tense gleams which, at moments, issued from her eyes, or 
he might have guessed that some terrible resolution was 
busy working at the fiery forge within her brain. Could he 
guess the sort of manufacture going on in that dangerous 
workshop ? But he did not. 

The party was assembled at the breakfast-table ; and, as 
if with a particular design to apprize Mrs. Beauchampe, that 
her warnings were not heeded, Colonel Sharpe dwelt with 
great deliberation upon the best modes before them of con- 
suming the rest of the week with profit. 


the bolt sped. 


288 


u AVhat say you, Beauchampe, to a morning at your 
friend Tiernan’s — he will give us arouse, I’m thinking; 
the next day with Coalter, and Saturday, what- ho’ ' 
elk-hunt ! at all events, Barnabas must go to Coalter 
a client of his, and will never forgive the omission 
is no less important that you should give him the elk-hunt 
also ; he has a taste for hard riding, and it will do him 
good. He’s getting stoutish, and a good shaking will keep 
his bulk within proper bounds. Certainly, he must have an 
elk-hunt.” 

‘ A like reason will make it necessary that you should 
ska?: it also, colonel,” said Beauchampe. “ You partake, 
in similar degree, of the infirmity of flesh which troubles 
Mr. Barnabas.” 

44 Ay, ay, but I am no candidate for the red-hat, which is 
the casa with Bamabae, and which the conclave will .reli- 
giously refuse to a man with a corporation.” 

44 But you are after the seat of attorney-general,” said 
Hr. Barnabas, with the placable smile of dullness. 

44 Granted ; and for such an office a good corporation may 
be considered an essential, rather than anything else. It 
confers dignity, Hah Now, the red-hatted gentry of the 
club are not expected to be dignified. The humor of the 
thing forbids it ; and as a candidate for that communion, 
it is necessary that you should live on soup maigre , and 
4 seek the chase with hawk and hound,’ as Earl Percy did. 
Besides, Beauchampe, he has a passion for it.” 

44 1 a passion for it ?” said Barnabas. 

44 Yes, to be sure — what were all those stories you used 
to t "ill us of hunting in Tennessee ; stories that used to set our 
hai: on end at your hairbreadth escapes. Either we must 
suppose you to have grown suddenly old and timid, or we 
must suppose, that, in telling those stories of your prowess, 
you we « amusing us with some pleasant fictions. That’s 
a dilemma for you, Barnabas, if you disclaim a passion for 
an elk-hunt now.” 


284 BEAUCHAMPE. 

44 No ! by Jupiter, I told you nothing but the truth,” said 
Barnabas, solemnly* 

44 I believe it,” said Sharpe, with equal solemnity, 44 I 
oelieve it, and believe that the passion continues.” 

“ Well,” said the other, 44 I can’t altogether deny that it 
does, but it has been somewhat cooled by other pursuits 
and associations.” 

44 It must be warmed again,” responded Sharpe ; 44 remem- 
ber, Beauchampe, be sure to make up a party for Saturday.” 

44 We include you in it?” asked Beauchampe. 

44 Ay, ay — if I happen to be 4 i’ the vein.’ But, you 
know, like Corporal Nym, I’m a person of humors. I may 
not have the fit upon me, or I may have some other nt ; and 
may prefer remaining at home to read poetry with our fail 
hostess.” 

The speaker glanced significantly at Mrs. Beauchampe 
as he said these words. Their eyes encountered. Hers 
wore an expression of the soberest sadness. As if pro- 
voked by the speech and the glance, she said, in the most 
deliberate language, while her lock was full of tie most 
rebukeful and warning expression : — 

44 1 thought you were to leave this morning for Frank 
fort, Colonel Sharpe. I derived that impression somehow 
from something that was said last evening.” 

Beauchampe turned full upon his wife with a stern look 
of equal astonishment and inquiry. Mr. Barnabas was 
aghast ; and Colonel Sharpe himself for a moment lost L‘.a 
equilibrium, and was speechless, while his eyes looked the 
incertitude which he felt. He was the first, however, to 
recover ; and, with a sort of legal dexterity, assuming as 
really having been his own the determination which she had 
suggested as being made by him, he replied : — 

<4 True, my dear madam, that was my purpose yesterday ; 
but the kind entreaties of our host, and the pleasant projects 
which we discussed last night, persuaded me to yield to the 
temptation, and tG stay till Sunday.” 


THE BOLT SPED. 


285 


The speaker bowed politely, and returned the severe 
glance of the lady with a look of mingled conciliation and 
doubt. For the first time, he began to feel apprehensive 
that he had mistaken her, and perhaps himself. She was a 
woman of prodigious strength of soul, indomitable resolu- 
tion, and the courage of a gigantic man. Never did words 
proceed more deliberately, more evenly, from human lips, 
than did the reply from hers : — 

“ That can not be, Colonel Sharpe. It is necessary that 
you should keep your first resolution. Mr. Beauchampe 
can no longer accommodate you in his dwelling.” 

“How, Mrs. Beauchampe!” exclaimed the husband, 
starting to his feet, and confronting her. She had risen 
while speaking, and was preparing to leave the room. She 
looked on him with a countenance mournful and humble — 
very different from that which she wore in addressing the 
other. 

“ Speak, Anna — say, Mrs. Beauchampe !” exclaimed the 
husband, “what does this mean ? This to my guests — to 
my friend !” 

“He is not your friend, Beauchampe — nor mine! But 
let me pass — I can not speak here !” 

She left the room, and Beauchampe, with a momentary 
glance at Sharpe, full of bewilderment, hurried after his 
wife. 

“ What’s this, Sharpe, in the devil’s name ?” demanded 
Barnabas in consternation. 

“ The devil himself, Barnabas !” said Sharpe. “ I’m afraid 
the Jezebel means to blow me, and tell everything!” 

“ But you told me last night that all was well and going 
right.” 

“ So I thought ! I fear I was mistaken ! At all events, 
I must prepare for the worst. Have you any weapons 
about you ?” 

“ My dirk !” 

f* Give it me : my pistols are in the saddle-bags.” 


286 


BEAUCHAMPE 


“ But what shall I do ?” 

“ You are in no danger. Give me t ie dirk, and hurry 
out and have our horses ready. D — n the woman! — who 
could have believed it ! ” 

“ Ah, you’re always so sanguine !” began Barnabas ; but 
the other interrupted him : — 

“ Pshaw ! this is no time for lecturing. Your wisdom is 
eleventh-hour wisdom ! It is too late here. Hurry, and 
prepare yourself and the horses, while I go to the room and 
get the saddle-bags ready. If I am blown, my start can 
not be too sudden.” 

Barnabas, always pliant, disappeared instantly ; and 
Sharpe, concealing the dirk in his bosom, with the handle 
convenient to his clutch, found himself unpleasantly alone. 

“ Who the d — 1 could have thought it ? What a woman ! 
But it may not be as bad as I fear. She may invent some- 
thing to answer the purpose of getting me off. She cer- 
tainly can not tell the whole. No, no ! that would be to 
suppose her mad. And mad she may be : I had not thought 
of that ! Now, I think of it r she looks cursedly like an 
insane woman. That wild, fierce gleam of her eye — those 
accents — and, indeed, everything since I have been here! 
Certainly, had she not been mad, it must have been as I 
wished. I could not have been deceived — never was de- 
ceived yet — by a sane woman ! It must be so ; and, if so, 
it is possible that she may blurt out the whole. I must be 
prepared. Beauchampe's as fierce as a vulture when roused. 
I’ve seen that in him before. I must get my pistols — 
though, in going for them, I may meet him on the stairs. 
Well, if I do, I am armed! He is scarcely more powerful 
than myself. Yet I would not willingly have him grapple 
with me, if only because he is her husband. The very 
thought of her makes me half a coward ! And yet I must 
be prepared. It must be done !” 

Such were his reflections. He advanced to the entrance. 
The footsteps of Beauchampe were heard rapidly striding 


THE BOLT SPED. 


287 


across the chamber overhead. The criml recoiled as he 
heard them. A tremor shot through his limbs. lie clutched 
the dagger in his bosom, set his teeth firmly, and waited for 
a moment at the entrance. 

The sounds subsided above. He thrust his head through 
the doorway, into the passage, and leaned forward in the 
act of listening. The renewed silence which now prevailed 
in the house gave him fresh courage. He darted up the 
steps, sought his chamber, and with eager, trembling hands 
caught up and examined his pistols. Both were loaded, 
and he thrust them into the pockets of his coat; then seiz- 
ing his own and the saddle-bags of his companion, he darted 
out f the chamber, and down the stairs, with footsteps 
equally light and rapid. 

Once more in the hall, and well armed, he was more 
composed, but as little prepared, morally, for events as 
before. There was a heavy fear upon his spirit. The cor- 
sciouGnoss of guilt is a terrible queller of one’s manhood. 
He waited impatiently for the return of Barnabas. At 
Such a moment, even the presence of one whom *-••> esti- 
mated rather humbly, and with some feelings oi con.V^pt, 
was grateful to his enfeebled spirit ; and the appearance of 
the h rses at the door, and the return of his friend, had 
the efiecl of re-enlivening him tc a degree which made him 
blush ior the feeling oi appieneus.on which he had so lately 
0; retained. 

‘''All’s ready! — will you ride?” demanded Barnabas, 
picking up his saddle-bags. The worthy coadjutor was by 
no means audacious in his courage. Sharpe hesitated. 

“ It may be only a false alarm, after all,” said he ; “ we 
had better wait and see.” 

“ I think not,” said the former. “ There was no mista- 
king the words, and as little the looks. She’s a very reso- 
lute woman.” 

Colonel Sharpe was governed by the anxieties of guilt 
$s well as its fears. The painful desire to hear and knov; 


288 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


to what extent the revelations of the wife had gone- a 
half confidence that all would not be told — that some loop- 
hole would be left for retreat — and the further conviction 
that, at all events, whatever was the nature of her story to 
her husband, it was quite as well that he should know it at 
one moment as another — encouraged him to linger; and 
this resolve, with the force of an habitual will, he impressed 
upon his reluctant companion. 

Leaving them to their suspense below, let us join the 
husband and wife above stairs. 


Explanation -the oath renewed, 




CHAPTER XXIX. 

EXPLANATION — THE OATH RENEWED. 

'* Take the dagger — 

The victim waits ! Thy honor and my safety 

Demand me stroke !” — Old Play. 

“In the name of God, Mrs. Beauchampe!” — such was 
the address of her husband as he joined her in their cham- 
ber — “ what is the meaning of all this ?” 

She silently took from the toilet a pair of pistols, and 
offered them to him. 

“What mean you by these — by this treatment of my 
friends ?” 

“ Your friends are villains ! Colonel Sharpe and Alfred 
Stevens are the same person !” 

“ Impossible !” he replied, recoiling with horror from the 
proffered weapons. 

“ True as gospel, Beauchampe !” 

“ True ?” 

“True! before Heaven, I speak the truth, my husband! 
— a dreadful, terrible truth, which I would not speak were 
it possible not to do so ! ” 

“ And why has not this been told me before ? Why has 
he been suffered to remain in your presence — nay, to be 
alone with you for hours — since his coming ? Did you 
know him from the first to be the same man ?” 

“ From the first !” 

“ Explain, then ! — for God’s sake, explain ! You blind 

13 


290 


BEAUCHAMPS, 


me - you stun me ! I am utterly unable to see this thing! 
How, if you knew him from the first, suffer for a moment 
the contagion of his presence V 9 

“ This I can easily answer you, my husband. Bear with 
me patiently while I do so ! I will lay bare to you my 
v .oie soul, and show you by what motives of forbearance 
J *vas governed, until driven to the course I have pursued 
me bold insolence of this uncompromising villain.” 

She paused — pressed her head with her hands as if to 
subdue the tumult which was striving within ; then, with 
an effort which seemed to demand her greatest energies, 
she proceeded with her speech. 

She entered into an explanation of that change in her 
feelings and desires which had been consequent upon her 
marriage. She acknowledged the force of those new do- 
mestic ties which she had formed, in making her unwilling 
that any event should take place which should commit her- 
self or husband in the eyes of the community, and bring 
about a disruption of those ties, or a further development 
of her story — which would be certain to follow, in the 
event of an issue between her husband and her seducer. 
With this change in her mood, prior to the appearance of 
this person and his identification with Colonel Sharpe, she 
had prayed that he might never reappear ; and when he 
did — when he became the guest of her husband, and was 
regarded as his friend — it was her hope that a sense of 
his danger would have prompted him to make his visit 
short, and prevent him from again renewing it. Her own 
deportment was meant to be such as should produce this 
determination in his breast. But when this failed of its 
effect ; when, in despite of warning, in defiance of danger, 
in the face of hospitality and friendship, the villain pre- 
sumed to renew his loathsome overtures of guilt ; when no 
hope remained that he would forbear ; when it was seen 
that he was without generosity, and that neither the rebuke 
of her scorn nor the warnings of her anger could repel his 


EXPLANATION — THE OATH RENEVVEID. 

insolent advances-— then it was that she felt compelled 
speak — then, and not before ! 

She had deferred this necessity to the last moment ; she 
had been purposely slow. She had given the seducer every 
opportunity to withdraw' in safety, and made the condition 
of his future security easy, by asking only that he would 
never seek or see her again ! 

She had striven in vain ; and, failing to find the immunity 
she sought from her own strength and firmness, it was no 
longer possible to evade the necessity which forced her to 
seek it in the protection of her husband. It was now neces 
sary that he should comply with his oath, and for this 
reason she had placed the weapons of death in his hands. 
Henceforth, the struggle was his alone. Of the sort of 
duty to be done, no doubt could exist in either mind ! 

Such was the narrative which, with the coherence not 
only of a sane but a strong mind, and a will that no pain 
of body and pang of soul could overcome, she poured into 
the ears of her husband. We will not attempt to describe 
the agony, the utter recoil and shrinking of soul, with which 
he liearo it. There is a point to which human passion 
sometimes arrives when all language fails of description ; 
as, in a condition of physical suffering, the intensity of the 
pain is providentially relieved by utter unconsciousness and 
stupor. But, such was the surprise with which Beauchampe 
received the information of that identity between Alfred 
Stevens and his friend — his friend! — that the impression 
which followed from what remained of his wife’s narrative 
was comparatively slight. You might trace the accumula- 
tion of pang upon pang, in his heart, as the story went on, 
by a slight convulsive movement of the lip — but the eye 
did not seem to speak. It was fixed and glassy, and so 
vacant, that its expression might have occasioned some ap- 
prehension in the mind of the wife, had her own intensity 
of suffering — however kept down — not been of so blinding 
and darkening a character. 


BEAUCHAMP. 


392 

When she had ended, lie grasped the pistols, and hurried 
to the entrance, but as suddenly returned. He laid the 
weapons down upon the toilet. 

“No!” he exclaimed — “not here! It must not be in 
this house. He has eaten at our board — he is beneath our 
roof. This threshold must not be stained with the blood 
of the guest !” 

He looked at her as he spoke these words. But she did 
not note his glance. Her eyes were fixed ; her hands were 
clasped ; she did not seem to note his presence, and her 
head was bent forward as if she listened. A moment was 
passed in this manner, when, as he still looked, she turned 
suddenly and seemed only then to behold him. 

“ You are here !” she said ; “ where are the pistols ?” 

He did not answer ; but, following the direction of his 
eye, she saw them on the toilet, and, striding toward them, 
fiercely and rapidly she caught them up from the place 
where they lay. 

“ What would you, Anna ?” he asked, seizing her wrists. 

“ The wrong is mine !” she exclaimed. “ My hand shall 
avenge it. It is sworn to it. I am prepared for it. Why 
should it be put upon another ?” 

“ No !” he cried — while his brow gathered into a cloud 
of wrinkles — “no, woman! You are mine, and your 
wrongs are mine — mine only ! I will avenge them : but I 
must avenge them as I think right-after my own fashion 
— in my own time. Fear not that I will. Believe that I 
am a man, with the feelings and the resolution of a man, 
and do not doubt that I will execute my oath — ay, even 
were it no oath — to the uttermost letter of the obligation ! 
Give me the weapons !” 

She yielded them. Her whole manner was subdued — 
her looks — her words. 

“ 0 Beauchampe, would that I could spare you this !” 

“Do I wish it, Anna? Would I be spared? No, my 
wife ! This duty is doubly incumbent on me now. This 


EXPLANATION — THE OATH RENEWED. 293 

roptiie has made your wrong doubly that of your husband. 
Has he not renewed his criminal attempt under my own 
roof? This, this alone, would justify me in denying him 
its protection ; but I will not. He shall not say he was 
entrapped ! As the obligation is a religious one, I shall 
execute its laws with the deliberation of one who has a 
task from God before him. I will not violate the holy 
pledges of hospitality, though he has done so. While he 
remains in my threshold, it shall protect him. But fear 
not that vengeance shall- be done. Before God, my wife, 
I renew my oath !” 

He lifted his hand to heaven as he spoke, and she sunk 
upon her knees, and with her hands clasped his. Her 
lips parted in speech, and her murmurs reached his ears, 
but what she spoke was otherwise inaudible. He gently 
extricated himself from her embrace — went to the basin, 
and deliberately bathed his forehead in the cold water. 
She remained in her prostrate position, her face clasped in 
her hands, and prone upon the floor. Having performed 
his ablations, Beauchampe turned and looked upon her 
steadfastly, but did not seek to raise her ; and, after a mo- 
ment’s further delay,, left the chamber and descended the 
stairs. 

Then his wife started from her feet, and moved toward 
the toilet, where the weapons lay. Her hand was ex- 
tended as if to grasp them, but she failed to do so, and 
staggered forward with the manner of one suddenly dizzy 
with blindness. With this feeling she turned toward the 
bed, and reached it in time to save herself a fall upon the 
floor. She sank forward, face downward, upon the couch ; 
and while a husky sound — a feeble sort of laughter, wild 
and hysteric — issued from her throat, she lost all sense of 
the agony that racked her soul and brain, in the temporary 
unconsciousness of both ; and which, but for the relief of 
this timely apathy, must have been fatal to life. 


BEAUCHAMFK 


zn 


CHAPTER XXX. 

REPRIEVE AND FLIGHT. 

When Colonel Sharpe heard the descending footsteps of 
Beauchampe as he came down the stairs, he asked Barna- 
bas to go into the passage-way and meet him — a request 
which made the other look a little blank. 

“There is no sort of danger to you, and you hear he 
walks slowly, not like a man in a passion. I doubt if she 
has told him all; perhaps she has told him nothing. At 
all events, you will be decidedly the best person to receive 
intelligence of what she has told. I’m thinking it’s a 
false alarm after all ; but, whether true or false, it can in 
no manner affect you. You are safe — go out, meet him, 
and learn how far I am so.” 

It has been seen that the will of the superior man, in 
spite of all first opposition, usually had its way with the in- 
ferior. Mr. Barnabas, however reluctant, submitted to the 
wishes of his companion, and with some misgivings, and 
with quite slow steps, left the room in order to meet with 
the husband, of whose rage such apprehensions were formed 
in both their minds. Sharpe, though he had expressed 
himself so confidently, or at least so hopefully, to Barnabas, 
was really full of apprehension. The moment that the lat- 
ter left the room, he took out his pistols, deliberately cocked 
them, and placing them behind his baok, moving backward 
a little farther from the entrance ; preparing himself in this 


REPRIEVE AND FLIGHT. 295 

manner for the encounter — if that became inevitable — with 
the angry husband. 

But the danger seemed to have passed away. Silence 
followed. The steps of Beauchampe were no longer heard, 
and, moving toward one of the front windows, the criminal 
beheld the two, already at a distance, and about to disap- 
pear behind the copse of wood that spread itself in front. 

Sharpe breathed more freely, and began to fancy that 
the cloud had dispersed, that the danger was overblown. 
He was mistaken. Let us join Beauchampe and his com- 
panion. 

“ Mr. Barnabas,” said the former, “ I speak to you still 
as to a gentleman, as I believe you have had no knowledge 
of the past crime of Colonel Sharpe, and no participation 
in his present villany.” 

“ Such was the opening remark of Beauchampe, when he 
had led the other from the house. Mr. Barnabas was 
prompt in denial and disclaimer. 

“ Crime — Beauchampe — villany ! Surely, you can not 
think I had any knowledge — any participation — ah ! — do 
you suppose — do you think I knew anything about it — ” 

“ About what ?” demanded the suspicious Beauchampe, 
coolly fixing his eyes, with a keen glance, upon the embar- 
rassed speaker. 

“ Nay, my dear Beauchampe — that’s the question,” said 
the other. “ You speak of some crime, some villany, as I 
understand you, of which our friend Sharpe has been guilty. 
If it be true, that he has been guilty of any, you are right 
in supposing that I know nothing about it. Nay, my dear 
fellow, don’t think it strange or impertinent, on my part, if 
I venture a conjecture — mark me, my dear fellow, a mere 
supposition— -that there must be some mistake in this mat- 
ter. I can’t think that Sharpe, a fellow who stands so high, 
whom we both know so well and have known so long, such 
ar excellent fellcw in fact, so cursed smart, and so clever 
a companion, cap have beep such a d d fqo t as tq ban 


296 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


practised any villany, at least upon a gentleman whom we 
both love and esteem so much as yourself.” 

“ There’s no mistake, Mr. Barnabas !” said the other, 
gravely. “ This man is a villain, and has been practising 
his villany to my dishonor, while in my house and enjoying 
my confidence and hospitality.” 

“ You don’t say so ! it’s scarce possible, Beauchampe ! 
The crime’s too monstrous. I still think, I mean, I still 
hope, that there’s some very strange mistake in the matter 
which can be explained.” 

“ Unhappily, sir, there is none. There is no mistake, 
and nothing needs explanation !” 

“ That’s unfortunate, very unfortunate ! May I ask, my 
dear fellow, what’s the offence ?” 

“ Surely, of this I drew you forth to tell you, in order 
that you might tell him. I do not wish to take his life in my 
own dwelling, though his crime might well justify me in for- 
getting the sacred obligations of hospitality — might justify 
me, indeed, in putting him to death even though his hands 
grasped the very horns of the altar. He has busied him- 
self, while in my dwelling, in seeking to dishonor its mis- 
tress. While we rode, sir, and in our absence, he has toiled 
for the seduction of my wife. That’s his crime ! You will 
tell him that I know all !” 

“ Great God ! What madness, what folly, what could 
have made him do so ? But, my dear Mr. Beauchampe, as 
he has failed, not succeeded, eh ?” 

The speaker stopped. It was not easy to finish such a 
sentence. 

*‘I can not guess what you would say, Mr. Barnabas, 
nor, perhaps, is it necessary. You will please to go back 
to your companion, and say to him that he will instantly 
leave the dwelling which he has endeavored to dishoncr. 
I see that your horses are both ready — a sign, sir, that 
Colonel Sharpe has not been entirely unconscious of this 
necessity, I wo aid fain uope, ju.i Barnabas that, in pn 


REPRIEVE AND FLIGHT. 


OCT 

AJt/ • 

paring to depart you-self, you acknowledge no more serious 
ob! ation to do so, than the words of my wife, conveyed at 
the breakfast-table !” 

T_e sentence was expressed inquiringly, and the keen, 
searching glance of Beauchampe, declared a lurking sus- 
picion that made it very doubtful to Barnabas whether the 
husba- d did not fully suspect the auxiliary agency which 
he had really exhibited in the dishonorable proceedings of 
Shar 33. He felt this, and could not altogether conceal his 
confusion, though he saw the necessity of a prompt reply. 

“ "y dear Beauchampe, w r as it not enough to make a 
gentleman think of trooping, with bag and baggage, when 
the lady of the house gives him notice to quit.” 

“ .out the notice was not given to you , Mr. Barnabas.” 

‘ Granted; but Sharpe and myself were friends, you 
know, and came together, and being the spokesman in the 
case, you see — ” 

“ Enough, Mr. Barnabas ; I ask no explanation from you. 
1 do not say to you that it is necessary that you should quit 
along with Colonel Sharpe, but as your horse is ready, per- 
haps it is quite as well that you should.” 

44 Hem ! such was my purpose, Mr. Beauchampe.” 

“ Yes, sir ; and you will do me the favor for which I re- 
quested your company, to say to him that the whole history 
of his conduct is known to me. In order that he should 
have no further doubts on this subject, you will suffer me to 
intrude upon you a painful piece of domestic history.” 

“ My dear Beauchampe, if it’s so very painful — ” 
u I perceive, Mr. Barnabas, that what I am about to re- 
late will not have the merit of novelty to you.” 

“ Indeed, sir, but it will — I mean, I reckon it will. 1 
really am very ignorant of what you intend to mention. I 
am, sir, upon my honor, I ajn !” 

Beauchampe regarded the creature with a cold smile of 
the most utter contempt, and when he had ended, re- 
sumed : — 


13 * 


298 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ Tell Colonel Sharpe, if you please, that, before I m if 
ried Mrs. Beauchampe, she herself told me the whole his- 
tory of Alfred Stevens and her own unhappy frailty, w T hile 
she swore me to avenge her dishonor. Tell him that I 
will avenge it, and that he must prepare himself accord- 
ingly. My house confers on him the temporary privilege 
of safety. He will leave it as soon as convenient after you 
return to it. I will seek him only after he has reached his 
own ; and when we meet it is with the one purpose of tak- 
ing his life or losing my own. There can be no half strug- 
gle between us. There can be no mercy. Blood, alone ! 
the blood of life — the life itself — can acquit me of my 
sworn obligation. It may be his life, or it may be mine; 
but he must understand, that, while I live, the forfeit stands 
against him, not to be redeemed but in his blood ! This is 
all, sir, that I have to say.” 

“ But, my dear Beauchampe—” 

“ No more, Mr. Barnabas, if you please. There can be 
nothing more between us. You will understand me further, 
when I tell you that I am not assured of your entire free- 
dom from this last contemplated crime of Colonel Sharpe. 

I well know your subserviency to his wishes, and but for 
the superior nature of his crime, and that I do not wish tc 
distract my thoughts from the sworn and solemn purpose 
before me, I should be compelled to show you that I regard 
the weakness which makes itself the minister of crime as a 
quality which deserves its chastisement also. Leave me, 
if you please, sir. I have subdued myself with great diffi- 
culty, to the task I have gone through, and would not wish 
to be provoked into a forgetfulness of my forbearance. You 
are in possession of all that I mean to say — your horses 
are ready — I suspect your friend is ready also! Good 
morning, sir !” 

The speaker turned into the copse, and Mr. Barnabas’ 
was quite too prudent a person to follow him with any 
further expostulations. The concluding warning of Beau 


REPRIEVE AND FLIGHT. 


299 


champe was not lost upon him ; and, glad to get off* sc 
well, lie hurried back to the house, where Sharpe was await- 
ing him with an eagerness of anxiety which was almost 
feverish. 

“Well — what has he to say ? You were long enough 
about it!” 

“ The delay was mine. He was as brief as charity. He 
knows all.” 

“ All ! impossible !” 

“All — every syllable! Nay, says he knew the whole 
story of Alfred Stevens and of his wife’s frailty before he 
married her. Begs me particularly to tell you that , and 
to say, moreover, that he was sworn to avenge her wrong 
before marriage.” 

“ Then she told me nothing but the truth ! What a blind 
ass I have been not to know it, and believe her ! I should 
have known that she was like no other woman under the 
sun !” 

u It’s too late now for such reflections : the sooner we’re 
off the better !” 

“ Ay, ay ! but what more does he say ?” 

“ That you are safe till you reach your own home ; but, 
after that, never ! It’s your life or his ! He swears it !” 

“ But was he furious ?” 

“No — by no means.” 

“ Then I’m deceived in the man as well as the woman ! 
If he lets me off now, I suspect there’s little to fear.” 

“ Don’t deceive yourself. He looked ready to break out 
at a moment's warning. It was evidently hard work with 
him to contain himself. Some fantastic notion about the 
obligations of hospitality alone prevented him from seeking 
instant redress.” 

“ Fantastic or not, Barnabas, the reprieve is something. 
I don’t fear the cause, however bad, if I can stave it off 
for a term or two. Witnesses may die, in the meantime ; 
principals become unsettled ; new judges, with new dicta , 


300 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


come in, and there is always hope in conflicting authori- 
ties. To horse, mon ami! — a reprieve is a long step to a 
full pardon.' ” 

“ It’s something, certainly,” said the other, “ and I’m suro 
I’m glad of it ; but don’t deceive yourself. Be on your 
guard. If ever there was a man seriously savage in his 
resolution, Beauchampe is.” 

“Pshaw! Barnabas! — you were ever an alarmist!” 
replied Sharpe, whose elasticity had returned to him 
with the withdrawal of the momentary cause of appre- 
hension. 

“We shall tame this monster, however savage, if you 
only give us time. Let him come to Frankfort, and we’ll 
set the whole corps of 4 Bed-Hats,’ yours among ’em, at 
work to get him to the conclave ; and one Saturday’s bout, 
well plied, will mellow body and soul in such manner that 
he will never rage afterward, however he may roar. I tell 
you, my lad, time is something more than money. It sub- 
dues hate and anger, softens asperity, wakens up new prin- 
ciples, makes old maids young ones — ay, my boy, and” — 
here, looking up over his horse, which he was just about 
to mount, at the windows of Beauchampe’s chamber, and 
closing the sentence in a whisper — “ ay, my boy, and may 
even enable me to overcome this sorceress — this tigress, 
if you prefer it — make her forget that she is a wife — for- 
get everything, but the days when I taught her her first 
lessons in loving !” 

“ Sharpe,” exclaimed the other in a sort of husky hor- 
ror, “ you are a perfect dare-devil, to speak so in the very 
den of the lion ?” 

“ Ay, but it is while thinking of the lioness.” 

“ Keep me from the claws of both !” ejaculated Barnabas, 
with an honest terror, as he struck spurs into the flanks of 
his horse. 

“ I do not now feel as if I feared either !” replied the 
other. 


REPRIEVE AND FLiGHf. 301 

% 

“ Don’t lialloo till out of the woods !” 

“No! — but, Barnabas, do you really think that this 
woman is sincere in giving me up ?” 

“ Surely ! How can I think otherwise ?” 

“ Ah, my boy, you know nothing of the sex.” . 

“ Well — but she has told him all. How do you explain 
that ?” 

“ She has had her reasons. She perhaps finds, or fan- 
cies, that Beauchampe suspects. She hopes to blind him 
by this apparent frankness. She’s not in earnest.” 

“ D — n such manoeuvring, say I !” 

‘‘Give us time, Barnabas — time, my boy, and I shall 
nave her at my feet yet ! I do not doubt that, with the 
help of some of our boys, I shall baffle him; and I will 
never lose sight of her while I have sight. I have felt 
more passion for that woman than I ever felt for any wo- 
man yet, or ever expect to feel for another ; and, if scheme 
and perseverance will avail for anything, she shall vet be 
mine !” 

“ If such were your feelings for her, why didn’t you marr; 
her in Charlemont ?” 

“So I would have done — if it had been necessary; 
but who pays for his fruit when he can get it for noth 
ing ?” 

“ True,” replied the other, evidently struck by the force 
of this dictum in moral philosophy — “that’s very true; 
but the fruit has its Argus now, if it had not then ; and the 
paws of Briareus may be upon your throat, if you look 
too earnestly over the wall. My counsel to you is, briefly, 
that you arrive with all possible speed at the faith of the 
fox.” 

“ What ! sour grapes ? No, no, Barnabas ! — the grapes 
are sweet — as I do not think them entirely out of reach. 
As for the dragon, we shall y^t contrive to ‘ calm the ter- 
rors cf rus olaws.’ ” 

So speaking, they rode out of sight, the courage oi noth 


302 


BEAUCitAMBE. 


rising as they receded from the place of danger. Whether 
Sharpe really resolved on the reckless course which he 
expressed to his companion, or simply sought, with the 
inherent vanity of a small man, to excite the wonder of the 
latter, is of no importance to our narrative. In either 
case, his sense of morals and of society is equally and 
easily understood. 


CHAL;j_f..» JE. 


808 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

CHALLENGE. 

Colonel Sharpe sat, one pleasant forenoon, in the snug 
parlor of his elegant mansion in the good city of Frank- 
fort. It was a dies non with him. He had leisure, and 
his leisure was a leisure which had its sauce. It was a 
satisfactory leisure. The prospect of wealth with dignity 
was before him. Clients were numerous ; fees liberal ; 
his political party had achieved its triumph, and his own 
commission as attorney-general of the state was made out 
in the fairest characters. The world went on swimmingly. 
Truly, it was a blessed world. So one may fancy, with 
♦■lie wine and walnuts before him. Ah, how much of the 
beauty of this visible world depends on one’s dessert — and 
digestion ! 

Colonel Sharpe’s dessert was excellent, but his digestion 
not so good. Nay, there were some things that he could 
not digest ; but of these, at the pleasant moment when we 
have thought proper to look in upon him, he did not think. 
His thoughts were rather agreeable than otherwise ; per- 
haps we should say, rather exciting than agreeable. They 
were less sweet than piquant; but they were such as he 
did not seek to disperse. A man of the world relishes his 
bitters occasionally. It is your long-legged lad of eighteen 
v, ho purses his lips while his eyes run water, as he imbibes 
the acrid but spicy flavor. Colonel Sharpe was no such' 
boy. He could linger over the draught, and sip, with a 


804 


fcEAlTriAMP'fi. 


sense of relish, from the mingling but not discordant ele- 
ments. He was no milksop. He had renounced the natu 
ral tastes at a very early day. 

He thought of Margaret Cooper— we should say Mrs. 
Beauchampe, but that, when he recalled her to his memory, 
she always came in the former, never in the latter charac- 
ter. He did not like to think of her as the wife of another. 
The reflection made him sore ; though, to think of her was 
always a source of pleasure in a greater or less degree. But 
he had not forgotten the husband ; and now, in connection 
with the wife, he felt himself unavoidably compelled to 
think of him. His countenance assumed a meditative as- 
pect. There was a gathering frown upon his brow in spite 
of his successes. At this moment a rap was heard at the 
door, and Mr. Barnabas was announced. 

“ Ha! Barnabas — how d’ye do?” 

“ Well — when did you get back ?” 

“ Last night, after dark.” 

“ Yes — I looked in yesterday and you were not he. 
then. What news bring you ?” 

“ None ! Have you any here ?” 

“ As little. It’s enough to know that all’s right. Wg ar<* 
quite joyful here — nothing to dash our triumph.” 

“ That’s well, and our triumph is complete; but”— 
with an air of abstraction — “ what do you hear of Beam 
champe ?” 

“ Not a word — but he’s in Frankfort !” 

“ Ha ! indeed !” 

“ Was here two days ago. Haven’t you heard from him ?” 

“ Not a syllable.” 

“ But how could you — going to and fro, and so brief a 
time in any place, it was scarcely possible to find you !” 

. “ I doubt if he’ll do anything, Barnabas. The affair 
will be made so much worse by stirring. He’ll not think 
of it — he’s very proud — very sensitive — very sensible to 
ridicule !” 


CHALLENGE. 


305 


“ I don’t know. I hope lie won’t. But he’s as strange 
an animal as the woman, his wife ; and, I tell you, there 
was a damned sour seriousness about him when he spoke to 
me on the subject, that makes me apprehensive that he’ll 
keep his word. The ides of March are not over yet.” 

Sharpe’s gravity increased. His friend rose to depart. 

“ Where do you go ?” 

“ To Folker’s. I have some business there. I just heard 
that 'you were here, and looked in to say how happy we all 
are in our successes.” 

“ You will sup with me to-night, Barnabas. I want you : 
I feci dull.” 

“ The devil you do — what, and just made attorney- 
general !” 

“ Even so ! Honors are weighty.” 

“Not the less acceptable for that. Glamis thou art — 
Cawdor shalt be — and let me be your weird sister, and 
proclaim, yet further — ‘Thou shalt be king hereafter!’ 
governor, I mean.” 

“ Ah ! you are sharp, this morning, Barnabas,” said 
Sharpo, his muscles relaxing into a pleasant smile. M I 
shall expect you to-night, if it be only to hear the repetition 
of those agreeable predictions.” 

“ I will not fail you ! addio !” 

Colonel Sharpe sat once more alone. Pleasant indeed 
were the fancies which the words of Mr. Barnabas had 
awakened in his mind. He murmured in the strain of dra- 
matic language, which the quotation of his friend had sug- 
gested, as he paced the apartment to and fro : — 

“ ‘ I know I’m thane of Glamis, 

Bat how of Cawdor — 

— And to be king, 

r Jar<-- not within the prerpset of belief.* 

Ay, but it doej f : he proceeded in the more sober prose of 
his own rejections ; “ The steps are fair and easy. Bar 


306 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


nabas is no fool in such matters, though no wit. He knows 
the people. He can sound them as well as any man. This 
suggestion does not come from himself. No — no! It 
comes from a longer head. It must be Clay ! Hem ! this 
is to be thought upon ! His word against a thousand 
pounds ! If he thinks so, it is as good as done ; and Barna- 
bas is only an echo, when he says, ‘ Thou shalt be king 
hereafter !’ Poor Barnabas ! how readily he takes his 
color from his neighbor.” 

A rap at the door arrested these pleasant reflections. 
The soliloquist started and grew pale. There was surely a 
meaning in that rap. It was not that of an ordinary ac- 
quaintance. It wanted freedom, rapidity. It was very 
deliberate and measured. One — two — three ! — you could 
count freely in the intervals. A strange voice was heard at 
the door. 

“ Colonel Sharpe is in town — is he at home !” 

The servant answered in the affirmative, and appeared a 
moment after, followed by a stranger — a gentleman of dark, 
serious complexion, whose face almost declared his busi- 
ness. The host felt an unusual degree of discomposure for 
which he could not so easily account. 

“ Be seated, sir, if you please. I have not the pleasure 
of your name.” 

“ Covington, sir, is my name — John A. Covington.” 

“ Covington — John A. Covington ! I have fc^e pleasure 
of knowing a gentleman whose name very much resembles 
yours. I know John W. Covington.” 

“ I am a very different person,” answered the stranger . 
— “I have not the honor of being ranked among your 
friends. 

The stranger spoke very coldly. A fcoief pause followed 
his words, in which Colonel Sharpe's composure rather 
underwent increase r ?he keen ays cf Covington observed 
his face, while he very deliberate^ drew irom his pocket a 


CHALLENGE. 307 

paper which he handed to- Sharpe, who took it with very 
sensible agitation of nerve. 

u Do me the favor, sir, to read that. It is from Mr. 
Beauchampe. He tells me you are prepared for it. It *8 
open, you see: I am aware of its contents.” 

“ From Beauchampe — ” 

“ Mr. Beauchampe, sir,” said the visiter, coolly correct 
ing the freedom of the speaker. 

“ This paper, as you will see by the date, sir, has bee _ 
some time in my hands. Your absence in the country, alone 
prevented its delivery.” 

“Yes, sir” — said Sharpe, slowly, and turning over the 
envelope — “yes, sir; this, I perceive, is a peremptory 
challenge, sir ?” 

“ It is.” 

“ But, Mr. Covington, there may be explanations, sir.” 

“ None, sir ! Mr. Beauchampe tells me that this is impos- 
sible. He adds, moreover, that you know it. There is but 
one issue, he assures me between you, and that is life or 
death.” 

“ Really, sir, there is no good reason for this. Mr. Cov- 
ington, you are a man of the world. You know what is 
due to society. You will not lend yourself to any meas- 
ure of unnecessary bloodshed. You have a right, sir — 
surely you have a right, sir, to interpose, and accept some 
more qualified atonement — perhaps, sir — an apology — 
the expression of my sincere regret and sorrow, sir — ” 

The other shook his head coldly — 

“ My friend leaves me none.” 

“ But, sir, if you knew the cause of this hostility — if — ” 

“ I do sir !” was the stern reply. 

“ Indeed ! But are you sure that you have heard it ex- 
actly as it is. There are causes which qualify offence — ” 

“ I believe, Mr. Beauchampe, sir, in preference to any 
other witness. This offence, sir, admits of none. You will 
permit me to add, though extra-official, that my friend deals 


308 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


with you very magnanimously. The provocation is of a 
sort which deprives you of any claim of courtesy. May 1 
ave your answer, sir, to the only point to which this let- 
ter relates ! Will you refer me to your friend ?” 

Sir — Mr. Covington — I will not fight Mr. Beau- 
cr.ampe !” 

“ Indeed, sir ! — can it be possible !’ exclaimed Coving- 
on, rising from his chair and regarding the speaker with 
ur prise. 

“ No, sir ! I can not fight him. I have wronged him too 
greatly. I can not lift weapon against his life !” 

“ Colonel Sharpe — this will never do ! You are a Ken- 
tuckian ! You are regarded as a Kentucky gentleman ! I 
say nothing on the score of your claim to this character. 
Let me remind you of the penalties which will follow this 
refusal to do my friend justice.” 

“ I know them, sir — I know them all. I defy them — 
will bear them, but I can not fight Beauchampe !” 

“ You will be disgraced, sir: I must post you !” 

Sharpe strode the apartment hastily. His cheek was 
flashed. He felt the humiliation of his position. In ordi- 
nary matters, in the usual spirit of society, he was no 
coward. We have seen how readily he fought with Wil- 
liam Calvert. But he could not meet Beauchampe — he 
could not nerve himself to the encounter. 

“ I can not, will not fight Beauchampe !” was his mut- 
tered ejaculation. “ No ! I have wronged him — wronged 
her ! I dare not meet him. I can never do it !” 

“ Be not rash, Colonel Sharpe,” said the other. “ Think 
of it again before you give me such an answer. I will 
give you three hours for deliberation : I will call again at 
four.” 

“ No, sir — no, Mr. Covington — the wrongs I have done 
to Beauchampe are known — probably well known. The 
world will understand that I can not fight him — that my 
offence is of such a nature, that, to lift weapon against hint i 


cmaLlkncJe. ' 80 S 

Would be monstrous. You may post me, sir ; but iio one 
who knows me will believe that it is fear that makes me 
deny this meeting. They will know all ; they will acquit 
me of the imputation of cowardice.” 

“ And how should they know,” demanded Covington 
sternly, “ unless you make them acquainted with the facts, 
and thus add another to my friend’s causes of provoca- 
tion ?” 

“ Nay, Mr. Covington, he himself told Mr. Barnabas.” 

“ True, sir ; but that was in a special communication to 
yourself, which implied confidence, and must have secrecy. 
My friend will have his remedy against Mr. Barnabas, if he 
does not against you, if he speaks what he should not. 
There is a way, sir, to muzzle your barking dogs.” 

“ It is known to others — Mr. William Calvert, with whom 
I fought on this very quarrel.” 

“ Ah ! that is new to me ; but as you fought in this very 
quarrel with Mr. Calvert, it seems to me that your objec- 
tion fails. You must fight with Mr. Beauchampe also on 
the same quarrel.” 

“ Never, sir! You have my answer — I will not meet 
him /” 

“ Do not mistake your position with the public, Colonel 
Sharpe. The extent of the wrong which you have done to 
Beauchampe only makes your accountability the greater. 
Nobody will acquit you on this score ; nay, any effort to 
make known to the people the true cause of Mr. Beau- 
champe’s hostility will make it obvious that you seek rather 
to excuse your cowardice, than to show forbearance, or to 
make atonement. Truly, they will regard that as a very 
strange sort of remorse which publishes the shame of the 
wife in order to justify a refusal to meet the husband !” 

“I will not publish it — Beauchampe has already done 
so.” 

“ It is known to two persons, sir, through him. It need 
not be known to more. Colonel Calvert is a friend of mine. 


310 


beauchampe. 


He is not the man to speak of the affair. Besides, 1 will 
communicate to him on the subject* and secure his silence. 
You shall have no refuge of this sort.” 

“ I have answered you, Mr. Covington,” said Sharpe, 
doggedly. 

“ I must post you, then, as a scoundrel and a coward !” 

Sharpe turned upon the speaker with a look of suddenly- 
roused fury in his face, but, swallowing the word which 
rose to his lips, he turned away. The other proceeded 
coolly: — 

“ This shall be done, sir ; and I must warn you that the 
affair will not end here. Mr. Beauchampe will disgrace 
you in the public streets.” 

The sweat trickled from the brows of Sharpe in thick 
drops such as precede the torrents of the thunderstorm. 
He strove to speak, but the convulsive emotions of his 
bosom effectually baffled utterance ; and, with dilated eyes 
and laboring breast, he strode the floor, utterly incapable 
of self-control. Covington lingered. 

“ You will repent this, Colonel Sharpe. You will recall 
me when too late. Suffer me to see you this afternoon for 
your answer.” 

The other advanced to him, then turned away; once 
more approached, and again receded. A terrible strife 
was at work within him ; but, when he did find words, they 
expressed no bolder determination than before. Covington 
regarded him with equal pity and contempt, as he turned 
away evidently dissatisfied and disappointed. 

He was scarcely gone when the miserable man found 
words : — 

“ God of heaven, that I should feel thus ! — that I should 
be so unmanned! Why is this? why is the strength de- 
nied me — the courage — which never failed before? It is 
not too late. He has scarcely left the step ! I will recall 
him. He shall have another ansVer !” — and, with this late 
resolution, he darted to the entrance and laid his hand upon 


(JttAtLEWittfi. 


811 

the knob of the door ; but the momentary impulse had al- 
ready departed* He left it unopened. He recoiled from 
the entrance, and, striking his hands against his forehead, 
groaned in all the novel and unendurable bitterness of this 
unwonted humiliation. 

“ And this is the man — Cawdor, Glamis, all! — king 
hereafter, too, as Mr. Barnabas promised — echoing, of 
course, the language of that great political machinist, Mr. 
Clay. Hal ha! ha!” 

Did some devil growl this commentary in the ears of the 
miserable man ? He heard it, and shuddered from head 
to foot. 


812 


REAtfCKtAMPE. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

PROGRESS OF PASSION. 

Let nobody imagine that a sense of shame implies re- 
morse or repentance. Nay, let them not be sure that it 
implies anything like forbearance in the progress of offence. 
It was not so with our attorney-general. The moment he 
recovered, in any fair degree, his composure, he despatched 
a messenger for his friend Barnabas. He, good fellow, 
came at the hrst summons. We will not say that hla foot- 
steps were not absolutely quickened by the recollection 
that it was just then the dinner-hour; and, possibly, some 
fancy took possession of his mind, leading him to the strange 
but pleasant notion that Sharpe had suddenly stumbled 
upon some bonne bouche in the market-place, of particular 
excellence, of which he was very anxious that his friend 
should partake. The supper, be it remarked, was no less 
an obligation still ! Conceptive Mr. Barnabas ! Certainly, 
he had some such idea. The bonne bouche quickened his 
movements. He ca: :e seasonably. The dinner was not 
consumed ; perhaps not quite ready : but, for the bonne 
bouche — alas ! Sic transit gloria mundi ! 

Such is the inscription, at least, upon this one pleasant 
hope of our amiable philosopher. There was a morsel for 
his digestion, or rather for that of his friendly entertainer ; 
but, unhappily, it w r ,s one that neither was well prepared 
to swallow. Mr. Barnabas was struck dumb by the intelli- 
gence which he heard. He wes not surprised that Beau- 


PROGRESS OF PASSION. 


61 

champe had sent a challenge : his surprise, amounting tc 
utter consternation, was that his friend should have refused 
it. He was so accustomed to the usual bold carriage of 
Colonel Sharpe — knew so well his ordinary promptness — 
nay, had seen his readiness on former occasions to do bat- 
tle, right or wrong, with word or weapon — that he was 
taken all aback with wonder at a change so sudden and 
unexpected. Besides, it must be recollected that Mr. Bar- 
nabas was brought up in that school of an earlier period, 
throughout the whole range of southern and western coun- 
try, which rendered it the point of honor to yield redress 
at the first summons, and in whatever form the summoner 
pleased to require. That school was still one of authority, 
not merely with Mr. Barnabas, but with the country ; and 
the loss of caste was one of those terrible social conse- 
quences of any rejection of this authority which he had not 
the courage to consider without absolute horror. When 
he did speak, the friends had changed places. They no 
longer stood in the old relation to each other. Instead of 
Colonel Sharpe’s being the superior will, while that of 
Barnabas was submission, the latter grew suddenly strong, 
almost commanding. 

“ But, Sharpe, you must meet him. By Jupiter, it won’t 
do ! You’re disgraced for ever, if you don’t. You can’t 
escape. You must fight him.” 

“ I can not, Barnabas ! I was never so unnerved in my 
life before. I can not meet him. I can not lift weapon 
against the husband of Margaret C&opcr.” 

“ Be it so ; but, at all events, receive his fire.” 

“ Even for this I am unprepared. I tell you, Barnabas, 
I never felt so like a cur in all my life. I never knew till 
now what it was to fear.” 

“ Shake it off ; it’s only a passing feeling. When you’re 
up, and facing him, you will cease to feel so.” 

The other shook his head with an expression of utter 
despair and self-abandonment. 

14 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


m 


“ By God, I know better !” exclaimed Barnabas warmly ; 
“ I’ve seen you on the ground — I’ve seen you fight. There 
was that chap Calvert — ” 

44 Barnabas, it is in vain that you expostulate. I have 
fought — have been in frequent strifes with men, and brave 
men too — but never knew such feelings as oppress me now, 
and have oppressed me ever since I had this message. Do 
not suppose me insensible to the shame. It burns in my 
brain with agony ; it rives my bosom with a choking and 
continual spasm. A hundred times, since Covington has 
been gone, have I started up with the view to sending him 
a message, declaring myself ready to meet his friend ; but 
as often has this cursed feeling come upon me, paralyzing 
the nromentary courage, and depriving me of all power of 
action. I feel that I can not meet Beauchampc — I feel 
that I dare not.” 

“ Great God ! what are we to do ? Think, my dear fel- 
low, what is due to your station — to your position in the 
party ! Remember, you are just now made attorney-gen- 
eral : you are the observed of all observers. Everything 
depends upon what exhibition you make now. Get over 
this difficulty — man yourself for this meeting — and the 
rest is easy. Another year puts you at the very head of 
the party.” 

“ I have thought oi all these things, Barnabas ; and one 
poor month ago, had an angel of heaven come and assured 
me that they would have failed to provoke me to the en- 
counter with any foe, however terrible, I should have flouted 
the idle tidings. Now, I can not.” 

“ You must! What will they say at the club? You’ll 
be expelled, Sharpe — think of that! You’ll be cut by 
every member. Covington will post you. Nay, ten to one 
but Beauchampe will undertake to horsewhip you.” 

“ I trust I shall find courage to face him then, Barnabas 
though I could not now. Look you, Barnabas — something 
can be done in another way. Beauchampe can be acted on 


PROGRESS OE P AS§TON. 


316 


u How — how can that be done V' 

u Two or three judicious fellows can manage it It is 
only to show him that any prosecution of this affair neces- 
sarily leads to the public disgrace of his wife. It is easy 
to show him that, though he may succeed in dishonoring 
me, the very act that does it is a public advertiseinent of 
her shame.” 

“ So it is,” said the other. 

“ Something more, Barnabas. It might be intimated to 
Covington that, as Margaret Cooper had a child — ” 

“ Did she, indeed ?” 

<( So I ascertained by accident. She had on b 3 fore 
leaving Charlemont.” 

“ Indeed ! — well ?” 

“ Well — it might have the effect of making him quisl 
show him that this child was — ” 

The rest of the sentence was whispered in uie tarb c: 
companion. 

• “ The d — 1 it was !” exclaimed the other. “ JKut chac 
certain, Sharpe ? — for, if so, it acquits you altogetner. Tne 
color alone would be conclusive.” 

“ Certainly it would. Now, some hint of this kind to 
Covington, or to Beauchampe himself — ” 

“ By Jupiter, I shouldn’t like to be the man to 'tell him, 
nowever ! He’s such a bulldog !” 

“ Through his friend, then. It might be done, Barna- 
bas ; and it can’t be doubted that the dread of such a report 
would effectually discourage him from any prosecution of 
this business.” 

“ So it might — so it would ; but — ” 

“ Barnabas, you must get it done.” 

“ But, my dear colonel — ” 

“ You must save me, Barnabas — relieve me of this diffi- 
culty. You know my power — my political power — you 
see my strength. I can serve you — you can not doubt my 


kEAUCHAMPE. 


sU 

willingi.ess to serve you; but if this power is lost — if* .. 
am disgraced by this fellow — we are all lost.’* 

M Truo — very true. It must be done. 1 will See to it. 
Make yourself easy. I will set about it as soon as dinner’s 
ever.” 

Here the politic Mr. Barnabas looked round with an 
ar_.xiou 3 questioning of the eye, which Colonel Sharpe un- 
derstood. 

u Ah ! dinner — I had not thought of that, but it must be 
ready. Of course, you will stay and dine with me.” 

a Why, yes — though I have some famous mutton-chops 
awaiting me at home.” 

“ Mine are doubtlessly as good.” 

We shall leave the friends to their pottage, without any 

ecessary inquiry into the degree of appetite which they 
severally brought to its discussion. It may not be imper- 
tinent, however, to intimate, as a mere probability, that 
Mr. Barnabas, in the discussion of the affair, was the most 
able analyst of the two. The digestion of Colonel Sharpe 
was, at this period, none of the best. We have said as 
much before. 

For that matter, neither was Beauchampe’s. The return 
of Covington, with the wholly unexpected refusal of Colonel 
Sharpe to meet and give him redress, utterly confounded 
him. Of course, he had the usual remedies. There was 
the poster — which may be termed a modern letter of credit 
— a sort of certificate of character, in one sense — carrying 
with it some such moral odor as, in the physical world, is 
communicated by the whizzing of a pullet’s egg, addled in 
June, directed at the lantern visage of a long man, honored 
with a high place in the public eye, though scarcely at ease 
(because of his modesty), in the precious circumference of 
the pillory. 

Beauchampe’s friend was bound to post Colonel Sharpe. 
Beauchampe himself had the privilege of obliterating his 
shame, by making certain cancelli on the back of the 


PROGRESS OF PASSION. 317 

wrong-doer, with the skin of a larger but less respectable 
animal. 

But were these remedies to satisfy Beauchampe ? The 
cowskin might draw blood from the back of his enemy ; but 
was that the blood which he had sworn to draw? 1 His oath ! 
his oath ! that was the difficulty 3 The refusal of Colonel 
Sharpe to meet him in personal combat left his oath unob- 
literated — uncomplied with. The young man was bewil- 
dered by his rage and disappointment. This was an unan- 
ticipated dilemma. 

“ What is to be done, Covington ?” 

“Post him, at the courthouse, jail, and every hotel in 
1 >wn.” 

“ Post him — and what’s the good of that?” 

“ You disgrace him for ever !” 

“ That will not answer — that is nothing !” 

“ You can go further. Horsewhip him — cowskin him-- 
cut his back to ribands, whenever you meet him in the open 
thoroughfare !” 

“ Did you tell him that I would do so ?” 

“ I did !” 

“ It did not move him ? What said he then ?” 

“Still the same! He would not fight you — could not 
lift weapon against your life.” 

“The villain! — the black-hearted, base, miserable vil- 
lain ? Covington, you will go with me ?” 

“ Surely ! You mean to post him, or cowhide him — or 
both?” 

“ No, no ! That’s not what I mean. I must have his 
blood — his life !” 

“ That’s quite another matter, Beauchampe. I do not 
see that you can do more than I have told you. He is a 
coward : you must proclaim him as such. Your poster 
does that. He is a villain — has wronged you. You will 
punish him for the wrong. Your horsewhip does that! 
You can do no more, Beauchampe.” 


818 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


44 Ay, but I must, Covington. Your poster is nothing, 
and the whip is nothing. I am sworn to take his life or 
lose my own !” 

44 I can do no more than I have told you. I will back 
you to this extent — no further.” 

44 I can force him to fight me,” said Beauchampe. 

44 In what way ?” 

44 By assaulting him with my weapon, after offering him 
another.” 

44 How, if he refuses to receive it ?” 

44 He can not — surely — he will not refuse.” 

44 He will ! I tell you, he will refuse. The man is ut- 
terly frightened. I never witnessed such unequivocal signs 
of cowardice in any man.” 

44 Then is he wonderfully changed.” 

A servant entered at this moment, and handed Beau 
champe a letter. It was from his wife. Its contents were 
brief : - 

.... 44 1 do not hear from you, Beauchampe — I do not 
see you. You were to have returned yesterday. Come 
to me. Let me see you once more. I tremble for your 
safety.” .... 

The traces of an agony which the words did not express 
were clearly shown in the irregular, sharp lines of the 
epistle. 

44 1 will go to her at once. I will meet you to-morrow, 
Covington, when we will discuss this matter further.” 

44 The sooner you take the steps I propose, the better,” 
said Covington. 44 The delay of a day to post him, is, 
perhaps, nothing ; but you must not permit the lapse of 
more.” 

44 1 shall not post him, Covington. That would seem to 
mock my vengeance, and to preclude it. No, no ! posting 
will not do. The scourging may ; bnt even that does not 
satisfy me now , To-norrow — we shall meet to-morrow ” 


PROGRESS OF PASSION * 


319 


"Let us go with the husband and rejoin Mrs. Beauchampe. 
A week had wrought great changes in her appearance. 
Her eyes have sunken, and the glazed intensity of their 
stare is almost that of madness. Her voice is slow — subdued 
almost to a whisper. 

“ It is not done !” she said, her lip touching his ear — 
her hands clasping his convulsively. 

“ No ! the miserable wretch refuses to fight with me, ,, 
She recoiled as she exclaimed — 

“ And did you expect that he would fight you ? Did you 
look for manhood or manly courage at his hands ?” 

“A y, but he shall meet me!” exclaimed Beauchampe, 
who perceived, in this short sentence, the true character of 
the duty which lay before him. “ I will find him, at least, 
and you shall be avenged ! He shall not escape me longer 
His blood or mine.” 

“ Stay ! go not, Beauchampe ! Risk nothing. Let me 
be the victim still. Your life is precious to me — more 
precious than my own name. Why should you forfeit sta- 
tion, pride, peace, safety — everything for me ? Leave me, 
dear Beauchampe — leave me to my shame — leave me to 
despair !” 

“ Never ! never ! You are my life. Losing you I lose 
more than life — all that can make it precious ! I will not 
lose you. Whatever happens, you are mine to the last.” 

“ To the last, Beauchampe — thine — only thine-— to the 
last — the last — the last !” 

She sunk into his arms. He pressed his lips upon hers, 
and drawing the dirk from his bosom, he elevated it above 
Ler head, while he mentally renewed his oath of retribution. 
This done, he released her from his grasp, placed her in a 
seat, and, once more, pressing his lips to hers, he darted 
from the dwelling. In a few seconds more the sound of his 
horse’s feet were heard, and she started from her seat, and 
from the stupor which seemed to possess her faculties, She 
hurried to the window. He had disappeared. 


820 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“ lie is gone !” she exclaimed, pressing her hand upon 
her forehead, “ He is gone ! gone for what ? Ha ! I have 
sent him. I have sent him on this bloody work. Oh ! 
surely it is madness that moves me thus ! It must be mad- 
ness. Why should he murder Alfred Stevens ? What good 
will come of it ? What safety ? What — But why should 
he not ? Are we never to be free ? Is he to thrust him- 
self into our homes for ever — to baffle our hopes — destroy 
our peace — point his exulting finger to the hills of Charle- 
mont, and cry aloud, c Remember — there’ ? No ! better he 
should die, and we should all die ! Strike him, Beau- 
champe ! Strike and fear nothing ! Strike deep ! Strike 
to the very heart — strike ! strike ! strike !” 

Why should we look longer on this mournful spectacle. 
Yet the world will not willingly account this madness. It 
matters not greatly by what name you call a passion which 
has broken bounds, and disdains the right angles of cou 
vention. Let us leave the wife for the husband. 


THE AVENGER. 


3 at 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE AVENGER. 

Was Beauchampe any more sane — we should phrase it 
.‘therwise — was he any less mad than his wife ? 

Perhaps he was more so. The simple inquiry which 
Mrs. Beauchampe had made, when he told her that Sharpe 
refused to fight him, had opened his eyes to all the terrible 
responsibility to which his unhappy oath had subjected him. 
When he had pledged himself to take the life of her be- 
trayer, he had naturally concluded that this pledge implied 
nothing more than the resolution to meet with his enemy in 
the duel. That a Kentucky gentleman should shrink from 
such an issue did not for a moment enter his thoughts ; and 
it is not improbable but that, if he could have conjectured 
this possibility, lie had not so readily yielded to the condi- 
tion which she had coupled with her consent to be his wife. 

But, after this, when in his own house, and under the 
garb of friendship, Colonel Sharpe labored to repeat hi? 
crime, still less could he have believed it possible that the 
criminal would refuse the only mode of atonement, which, 
according to the practices of that society to which they 
both were accustomed, was left within his power to make. 
Had he apprehended this, he would have chosen the most 
direct mode of vengeance — such as the social sense every- 
where would have justified — and put the offender to death 
upon the very hearth which he had striven to dishonor, 
14* 


322 


BEAtlCHAMPE. 


That he had not done so, was now his topic of self-reproach. 
An idea, whether true or false, of what was due to a guest, 
had compelled him to forbear, and to send the criminal 
forth, with every opportunity to prepare himself for the 
penalties which his offences had incurred. 

Still, up to this moment, he had not contemplated the 
necessity of lifting his weapon except on equal terms, with 
the enemy whose life he sought. In fair light he had no 
hesitation at this ; but, as a murderer, to strike the unde- 
fended bosom — however criminal ; however deserving of 
death — was a view of the case equally unexpected and 
painful. It was one for which his previous reflections had 
not prepared him ; and, the excitement under which he 
labored in consequence, was one, that, if it did not madden 
him deprived him at least of all wholesome powers of re- 
flection. 

While he rode to Frankfort, he went as one in a cloud. 
He saw nothing to the right or the left. The farmer, his 
neighbor, spoke to him, but he only turned as if impatient 
at some interruption, but, without answering, put spurs 
again to the flanks of his horse, and darted off with a wilder 
speed than ever. An instinct, rather than a purpose, when 
he reached Frankfort, carried him to the lodgings of his 
friend Covington. 

“ And what do you mean to do ?” demanded the latter. 

“ Kill him — there is nothing else to be done !” 

“ My dear Beauchampe — you must not think of such a 
thing.” 

“ Ay, but I must : why should I not ? Tell me that. 
Shall such a monster live ?” 

“ There are good reasons why you should not kill him. 
If you do, unless in very fair fight, you will not only be 
tried, but found guilty of the murder.” 

“ I know not that. His crime — ” 

“ Deserves death and should have found it at the time ! 
Had you put him to death when he was in your house, and 


tHE AVENGER. 


323 


made the true cause known, die jury must have justified 
you; but you allowed the moment of provocation to pasa ” 

“ Such a moment can not pass.” 

“ Ay, but it can and does ! Time, they say, cools the 
blood !” 

“ Nonsense ! When every additional moment of thought 
adds to the fever.” 

“ They reason otherwise. Nay, more — just now that 
feeling of party runs too high. Already, they have trum- 
peted it about that Calvert sought to kill Sharpe on the 
score of his attachment to Desha. They made the grounds 
of that affair political, when, it seems to have been purely 
your own ; and if you should attempt and succeed in such 
a thing, he would be considered a martyr to the party, and 
you would inevitably become its victim.” 

“ Covington, do you think that I am discouraged by this ? 
Do you suppose I fear death ? No ! If the gallows were 
already raised — if the executioner stood by — if I saw the 
felon-cart, and the gloating throng around, gathered to be- 
hold my agonies, I would still strike, strike fatally, and 
without fear !” 

“ I know you brave, Beauchampe ; but such a death 
might well appal the bravest man !” 

“ It does not appal me. Understand me Covington, I 
must slay this man !” 

“ J can not understand you, Beauchampe. As your friend 
I will not. I counsel you against the deed. I coun3J you 
purely with regard to your own safety.” 

A s a friend, would you have me live dishonored ?” 

“ No ! I have already counselled you how to transfer the 
ish r nor from your shoulders to his. Denounce him for his 
crime — disgrace him by the scourge !” 

“ No ! no ! Covington — this is no redress — no remedy. 
His blood only can wipe o:.t that shame.” 

* I will have nothing to do with it, Beauchampe.” 

Will -on lesort me ?” 


324 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


“Not if you adopt the usual mode. Take your horse* 
whip, arm yourself ; give Sharpe notice to prepare ; and it 
is not impossible, then, that he will be armed, and the ren- 
contre may be as fatal as you could desire it. I am ready 
for you to this extent.” 

“ Be it so, then ! Believe me, Covington, I would rather 
a thousand times risk my own life than be compelled to 
take his without resistance. But understand one thing. 
He or I must perish ! We can not both survive.” 

“ I will strive to bring it about,” said the other ; and, 
urged by the impatience of Beauchampe, he proceeded, a 
second time, to give Colonel Sharpe the necessary no- 
tice. 

But Sharpe was not to be found. He was denied at his 
own dwelling as in town ; and Covington took the way to 
the house of his arch-vassal Mr. Barnabas. The latter 
gentleman confirmed the intelligence. He stated, not only 
that Sharpe had left town, but had proceeded to Bowling- 
Green. 

Covington did not conceal his object. Knowing the char- 
acter of Barnabas, and his relation to Sharpe, he addressed 
himself to the fears of both. 

“ Mr. Barnabas, it will be utterly impossible for Colonel 
Sharpe to avoid this affair. Beauchampe will force it upon 
him. He will degrade him daily in the streets of Frank- 
fort : he will brand him with the whip in the sight of the 
people. You know the effect of this upon a man’s charac- 
ter and position.” 

“Certainly, sir; but, Mr. Covington, Mr. Beauchampe 
will do so at his peril.” 

“To bo sure — lie knows that; but, with such wrong:- 
as Mr. Beauchampe has had to sustain, he Knows no perii 
He will certainly do what I tell you.” 

“But, Mr. Covington — my c°ar sir — can rot ill's be 
avoided ? Is there no other remedy ? Will no .Apcicg? — 
no atonement of Colonel Sharpe — supper a written apoi 


THE AVENGER. 


326 


ogy— most humble and penitent — to Mr. and Mrs. Beau- 
champe — ” 

“ Impossible ! How could you think that such an apol- 
ogy could atone for such an offence? — first, the seduc- 
tion of this -lady, while yet unmarried ; and, next, the 
abominable renewal of the attempt when she had become a 
wife I” 

4 But nobody believes this, Mr. Covington. It is gen- 
erally understood that the first offence is the only one to 
be laid at Sharpe’s door, and this is to be urged only 
on political grounds. Beauchampe supported Tompkins 
against Desha, and the friends of Tompkins revive this 
stale offence only to discredit Sharpe as the friend of the 
former.” 

“ Mr. Barnabas, you know better. You know that Beau- 
champe was the friend of Sharpe, and spoke against Cal- 
vert in his defence. We also know, as well as you, that 
Calvert and Sharpe fought on account of this very lady ; 
though Desha’s friends have contrived to make it appear 
that the combat had a political origin.” 

“ Well, Mr. Covington, my knowledge is one thing — 
that of the people another. I can only tell you that it is 
very generally believed that the true cause of the affair is 
political.” 

“ And how has this general knowledge been obtained, 
Mr. Barnabas ?” remarked Covington rather sternly. “ As 
the friend of Beauchampe, and the only one to whom he has 
confided his feelings and wishes, I can answer for it that 
no publicity has been given to this affair by us.” 

“I don’t know,” said Barnabas, hurriedly, “how the 
report has got abroad. I only know that it is very gen- 
eral.” 

Mr. Covington rose to depart. 

“Bet me, before leaving you, Mr. Barnabas, advise you, 
as one of the nearest friends of Colonel Sharpe, what he is 
to expect. Mr. Beauchampe will take ttye road of him, and 


326 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


will horsewhip him through the streets of Frar 1 * fort on tin 
first occasion — nay, on every occasion — till he is prepared 
to fight him. I am free to add, for the benefit of w, y of 
Colonel Sharpe’s friends, that I will accompany him when- 
ever he proposes to make this attempt.” 

And, with this knightly intimation, Mr. Covington too*: 
his departure. 

When Beauchampe heard that Sharpe had left town, a 
gone to Bowling-Green, he immediately jumped on his hors 
and went off* in the same direction. 

That very afternoon, Mr. Barnabas sat with his friend 
Colonel Sharpe over a bottle, and at the town-house of the 
latter ! It had been a falsehood by which Beauchampe was 
sent on a wild-goose chase into the country. The object 
was to gain time, so as to enable the friends of both par- 
ties, or rather the friends of the criminal, who were mem- 
bers of the club, to interpose and effect an arrangement of 
the affair, if such a thing were possible ; and, in the natural 
gratification which Sharpe felt that the danger was parried, 
though for a moment only, the spirits of the criminal rose 
into vivacity. The two made themselves merry with the 
unfruitful journey which the avenger was making ; not con- 
sidering the effect of such manoeuvring upon a temper so 
excitable, nor allowing for the accumulation of those pas- 
sions which, as they can not sleep, and can not be subdued, 
necessarily become more powerful in proportion to the de- 
lay in their utterance, and the restraints to which they are 
subjected. 

Of course, Mr. Barnabas made a full report to his pri: 
cipal of all that Covington had told him. There was little 
in this report to please the offender ; but there were other 
tidings which were more gratifying. The members of the 
club were busy to prevent the meeting. Mr. Barnabas h id 
already sent a judicious and veteran politician to sco Cov- 
ington ; and, having a great faith himself in the powers of 
the persons he had employed to bring the matter to 0 


THE AVENGER. 327 

peaceable adjustment, lie had infused a certain portion of 
his own faith into the breast of his superior. 

And the bowl went round merrily ; and the hearts of the 
twain were lifted up, for, in their political transactions, 
there was much that had taken place of a character to give 
both of them positive gratification. And r ,so the evening 
passed until about eight o’clock, when Mr. Barnabas sud 
denly recollected that he had made an appointment with 
some gentleman which required his immediate departure. 
Sharpe was unwilling to lose him, and his spirits sunk with 
the departure of his friend ; nor were they much enlivened 
by the entrance of a lady, in whose meek, sad countenance 
might be read the history of an unloved, neglected, but un- 
complaining wife. He did not look up at her approach. 
She placed herself in the seat which Mr. Barnabas had left. 

“You look unwell, Warham. You seem to have been 
troubled, my husband,” she remarked with some hesitation, 
and in a faint voice. “ Is anything the matter ?” 

“ Nothing which you can help, Mrs. Sharpe,” he replied 
in cold and repelling accents, crossing his legs, and half 
wheeling his chair about so as to turn his back upon her- 
She was silenced, and looked at him with an eye full of a sad 
reproach and a lasting disappointment. No further words 
passed between them, and a few moments only elapsed 
when a rap was heard at the outer entrance. 

“ Leave the room,” he said ; “ I suppose it is Barnabas 
returned. I have private business with him. You had 
better go to bed.” 

She rose meekly, and did as she was commanded. He 
also rose, and went to the door. 

1 Who’s that — Barnabas ?” he demanded, while opening 
the door. 

He waa answered indistinctly; but he fancied that the 
words were in the affirmative, and the visiter darted in the 
moment the door was opened. The passage-way being 
dark, he could not distinguish the person of the stranger, 


328 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


except to discover that it was not the man whom he 02 
pected. But this discovery was made almost in the veiy 
instant when the intruder entered, and with it came certain 
apprehensions of danger, which, however vague, yet startled 
and distressed him. Under their influence he receded from 
the entrance, moving backward with his face to the stran- 
ger, till he re-entered the sitting-apartment. The moment 
that the light fell upon the face of the visiter, his knees 
knocked against one another. It was Beauchampe. 

“ Beauchampe !” he involuntarily exclaimed, with a hol- 
low voice, while his dilated eyes regarded the fierce, wild 
aspect of the visiter. 

“ Ay, Beauchampe !'” were the echoed tones of the other 
— tones almost stifled in the deep intensity of mood with 
which they were spoken — tones low, but deep, like those 
of some dull convent-bell, echoing at midnight along the 
gray rocks and heights of some half-deserted land ! As 
deep and soul-thrilling as would be such sounds upon the 
ear of some wanderer, unconscious of any neighborhood, 
did they fall upon the sudden sense of that criminal. His 
courage instantly failed him. His knees smote each other ; 
his tongue clove to his mouth ; he had strength enough only 
to recede as if with the instinct of flight. Beauchampe 
caught his arm. 

“ You can not fly — you must stay! My business will 
suffer no further postponement.” 

Beauchampe forced him into a chair. 

“ What is the matter, Beauchampe? what do you .naa. 
to do ?” gasped the trembling criminal. 

“ Does not your guilty soul tell you what I should do?” 
was the stern demand. 

“ I am guilty !” was the half-choking answer. 

“ Ay ! but the confession alone will avail nothing- You 
must atone for your guilt !” 

“ On my knees, Beauchampe ?” 

“ No ! — with your blood !” 


THE AVENGER. 


829 


“ Spare me, Beauchampe ! oh ! spare my life. Do not 
murder me — for I can not fight you on account of that in- 
jured woman !” 

“ This whining will not answer, Colonel Sharpe. You 
must fight me. I have brought weapons for both. Choose !” 

The speaker threw two dirks upon the floor at the feet 
of the criminal, while he stood back proudly. 

44 Choose ! ” he repeated, pointing to the weapons. 

But the latter, though rising, so far from availing himself 
of the privilege, made an effort to pass his enemy and es- 
cape from the room. But the prompt arm of Beauchampe 
arrested him and threw him back with some force toward 
the corner of the apartment. 

44 Colonel Sharpe, you can not escape me. The falsehood 
of your friend, which sent me from the city, has resolved 
me to suffer no more delay of justice. Will you fight me ? 
Choose of the weapons at your feet.” 

44 1 can not ! spare me, Beauchampe — my dear friend — 
for the past — in consideration of what we have been to 
each other — spare my life !” 

44 You thought not of this, villain, when, in the insolence 
of your heart, you dared to bring your lust into my dwel- 
ling.” 

44 Beauchampe, hear me for your own sake, hear me.” 

44 Speak ! speak briefly. I am in no mood to trifle.” 

44 My crime was that of a young man — ” 

44 Stay ! your crime was the invasion of my family — of 
its peace.” 

44 Ah ! — that was a crime — if it were so.” 

44 What, do you mean to deny ? Dare you to impute false- 
hood to my wife ?” 

44 Beauchampe, she is your wife ; and for this reason, I 
will not say, what I might say, but — ” 

Oh ! speak all — speak all! I am curious to see by 
when lew invention of villany you hope to deceive me.” 

H v } J.&u7 — .T-.0 invention, Beauchampe — 1 speak only 


330 


BEAtJCttAMPE. 


the solemn truth. Before God, I assure you it is the truth 
only which I will deliver.” 

“ You swear ?” 

“ Solemnly.” 

“ Speak, then — but take up the dirk.” 

“ No ! If you will but hear me, I do not fear to con- 
vince you that there needs none either in your hands or 
mine.” 

“ You are a good lawyer, keen, quick-witted, and very 
logical ; but it will task better wits than yours to alter my 
faith that you are a villain, and that you shall perish by 
this band of mine.” 

Beauchampe stooped and possessed himself of one of 
the weapons. 

“ Speak now ! what have you to say ? Remember Col- 
onel Sharpe, you have not only summoned God to witness 
your truth, but you may be summoned in a few moments to 
his presence to answer for your falsehood. I am sent here, 
solemnly sworn, to take your life I” 

“ But only because you believed me a criminal in respects 
in which I am innocent. If I show you that I never ap- 
proached Mrs. Beauchampe, while your wife, except with 
the respect due to herself and you — ” 

“ Liar ! but you can not show me that ! I tell you, I 
believe what she has told me. I know her truth and your 
falsehood.” 

“ She is prejudiced, my dear friend. She hates me — ” 

u And with good reason : but hate you as she may, sh^ 
speaks, and can speak, nothing in your disparagement bat 
the truth.” 

“ She has misunderstood — mistaken mo, in what I said.” 

“ Stay !” approaching him. “ Stay ! do not deceive your- 
self, Colonel Sharpe : you can not deceive me. She has 
detailed the whole of your wild overtures — the very words 
of shame and guilt, and villanous baseness which you em- 
ployed.” 


THF AVENGER. 331 

“ Beviclimpe, my dear friend, arc you sure ihat she has 
told you all ?’* 

Here the criminal approached with extended hand, while 
he assumed a look of mysterious meaning, which left some- 
thing for the other to anticipate. 

“ Sure that she told me all ? Ay ! I am sure ! What 
remains ? Speak out, and leave nothing to these smooth, 
cunning faces. Speak out, while the time is left you.” 

“ Did she tell you of our first meeting in Charlemont ?” 

“ Ay, did she — that! everything !” 

“I seek not to excuse my crime, there , Beauchamp? — 
but that was not a crime against you ! I did not know yov 
then I did not then fancy that you would ever bo ?o 
lied to— ” 

“ Cease that, and say what you deem needful.” 

“ Did she tell you of the child ?” 

“ Child ! what child ?” demanded Beauchainpe, with a 
start of surprise. 

The face of Sharpe put on a look of exultation. He felt 
that he had gained a point. 

“ Ah ! ha ! I could have sworn that she did not tell you 

all r 

The eyes of Beauchampe glared more fiercely, and the 
convulsive twitching of the hand which held the dagger, 
and the quivering of his lip, might have warned his com- 
panion of the danger which he incurred of trifling with him 
longer. 

But Sharpe’s policy was to induce the suspicions of 
Beauchampe in relation to his wife. He fancied, from the 
unqualified astonishment which appeared in the latter’s 
face, as he spoke of the child, that he had secured a large 
foothold in this respect, for it was very clear that Mrs. 
Beauchampe, while relating everything of any substantial 
importance which concerned herself, had evidently omitted 
that portion of the narrative which concerned the unhappy 
and short-lived offspring of her guilty error. 


^E\UCHAMPE. 


*32 

It doeu n_,ed to inquire why she had forborne to in- 
clude this particular in her statement to her husband. 
There may have been some superior pang in the rccollec- 
tfer of that gloomy period which had followed her fall ; and 
It was not necessary to the frank confession which she had 
freely offered of her guilt. 

But, though unimportant, Colonel Sharpe very well knew, 
that there ic a danger in the suppression of any fact, in a 
case like this, where the relations are so nice and sensitive, 
which. :s like to involve an appearance of guilt, and to lead 
io s presumption. Like an experienced practitioner at 
tht -ssioiis, he deemed it important to dwell upon this par- 
t'*: : 

“ I could have sworn !” he repeated, “ that she had not 
told you of that child. “ Ah ! my dear friend, spare me 
the necessity of telling you what she has forborne. She is 
now your wife. Her reputation is yours — her shame 
would be yours also. Believe me, I repent of all I have 
done — for your sake, for hers — believe me, moreover, 
when I assure you that she mistook my language, when she 
fancied that I meant indignity in what I said lately in your 
house.'’ 

“ But I could not mistake that, Colonel Sharpe.” 

“ No ! but did you hear it rightly reported ?” 

“Ay! she would not deceive me. You labor in vain. 
This dirty work is easy with you ; but it does not blind 
me ! Colonel Sharpe, what child is this that you speak 
of?” 

“ Iler child, to be sure !” 

“ Her child ! Had she a child ?” 

“ To be sure she had. Ask her : she will not deny it, 
perhaps, and if she does, I can prove it.” 

“ Her child ! — and yours ?” 

“No — no! No child of mine !” 

“ Ha ! not your child ! Whose — whose then ?” 

“ Go to her, my dear friend i A§1f her of that child.” 


THE AVENGER. 


333 


“ Where is the child ?” 

“ Dead !” 

“ Dead ! well ! what of it then V ■ 

“Go to her — ask her whose it was? Ah! my dear 
Beauchampe, let me say no more. Press me no further to 
speak. She is your wife !” 

The eye of Beauchampe settled upon him with a suddenly- 
composed but stony expression. 

“ Say all /” he said deliberately. “ Disburthen yourself 
of all ! I request it particularly, Colonel Sharpe — nay, I 
command it.” 

“ My dear friend, Beauchampe, I really would prefer not 
— ah ! it is an ugly business.” 

“Do not trifle, Colonel Sharpe — speak — you do not 
help your purpose by this prevarication. What do you 
know further of this child ? It was not yours, you say — 
whose was it then ?” 

“ It was not mine ! and to say whose it was is scarce so 
easy a matter, but — ” and he drew nigh and whispered the 
rest of the sentence, some three syllables, into the ears of 
the husband. 

The latter recoiled. His face grew black, his hand 
grasped tffe dagger with nervous rigidity, and, while the 
look of cunning confidence mantled the face of the criminal, 
and before he could recede from the fatal proximity to 
which, in whispering, he had brought himself with the 
avenger, the latter had struck. The sharp edge of the 
dagger had answered the shocking secret — whatever might 
have been its character — and the terrible oath of the hus- 
band was redeemed ! — redeemed in a single moment, and 
by a single blow. 

The wrongs of Margaret Cooper were at last avenged ! 

But were her sorrows ended ? 

Ho w should they be ? The hand that is stained with hu- 
man blood, in whatever cause — the soul that has promptc* 
the deed of blood — what waters shall make clean? 


834 


fcEAtJCHAMPE. 


“ Vengeance is mine !” saith the Lord — meaning u mine 
only !” Wo, then, for the guilty soul that usurps this sub- 
lime privilege of Deity! It must bide a dreary destiny 
before the waters of heavenly mercy shall flow to cleanse 
and sweeten it. We may plead the madness of the crimi- 
nals, and this alone may excuse what we are not permitted 
to justify. Certainly, they had been stung to madness. 
The very genius of Margaret Cooper made the transition 
to madness easy ! 

But — Colonel Sharpe fell, prone on his face, at the feet 
of the avenger ! 

A single blow had slain him ! 


HUE AND CRY. 


335 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

HUE AND CRY. 

M Now that we have the food we so have longed fo*, 

Let us talk cheerily j We’ll think of pleasures 
That never shall grow surfeit — of joys of Death, 

Whose reign wraps earth in its eternal grasp. 

And feeds eternity ! Oh, we’ll be joyful now V* — Old Play. 

A MURDER in a novel, though of very common occurrence, 
is usually a matter of a thousand very thrilling minutiae. 
In the hands of a score of our modern romancers, it is sur- 
orising what capital they make of it ! How it runs through 
a score of chapters! — admits of a variety of details, de- 
scriptions, commentaries, and conjectures ! Take any of 
the great raconteurs of the European world— not forget- 
ting Dumas and Reynolds — and see what they will do with 
it ! How they turn it over, and twist it about, as a sweet 
morsel under the tongue ! In either of these hands, it be- 
comes one of the most prolific sources of interest ; which 
does not end with the knife or bludgeon stroke, or bullet- 
shot, but multiplies its relations the more it is conned, and 
will swallow up half the pages of an ordinary duodecimo. 
As they unfold the long train of consequences, in intermi- 
nable recital, you are confounded at the dilating atmosphero 
cf the deed ; at the long accumulation of dreary details ; 
tr-.e fact upon fact — whether of moment or value to the 
progress, :r ' ?$ } is net necessary tc be asked here — which 
grows out of the c/fru.* or. every hand. How it spreads, a3 
radiating circles in the water, from a pebble plunged 


ESAtJCflAMttS. 


I 

xito .a.^ . There you see the good old butler or pcrte/ 
yf ilie household, 11 may be the cook or hostler — Saum 
lers Maybiu, or Richard Swopp, by name — going forth at 
awn, having been troubled during the night with sundry 
•^easinesses, the consequence of a hearty supper of lobster 
or salt cod, and suddenly encountering a blood-spot upon 
the sward ! 

That mysterious blood-spot! — 

At the sight of it, the said Saunders or Richard recoils, 
puts his finger to his nose dubitatingly, shakes his noddle 
s gnificantly, and mutters — quoting Shakspere without a 
consciousness? “ This is miching malico ! It means mis- 
chief!” 

And, so saying, he goes on nosing — all nose from that 
mo ment — till he finds more sign, in the parlance of the 
Tr dian, and is at length conducted, step by step, till he 
stumbles over the lopped members of a human carcass jut- 
ting out from a dunghill ! 

Nay, it may not be so easily found — may require some 
circuitous turns of the nose before full discovery ; and then 
it may not be in a dunghill that it is hidden. It may be in 
the bushes or in the sands ; but no matter where : you shall 
be a whole summer day in making the discovery, for our 
authors will not suffer you to lose a single detail in the 
progress ; and, by the time the search is ended, it is to be 
hoped that you will believe that your author as well as 
conductor has a valuable nose ! 

But, whatever the particulars of search and discovery, 
you must have ’em all ; you will be bated not a hair, not 
an item, not an atom : how many are the drops of blood ; 
how large the puddle ; whether first seen on grass or sand ; 
how the body lies when found ; what the shape and size of 
the wound ; whether by a sharp or rusty blade, smooth shil- 
lelah or knotted hickory : there must be a regular inven- 
tory ! Such is equally crowner’s quest and novelist’s law ! 

And the “ crowner’s quest” itself — that is always an 


HUE AND CRY. 


337 


inquisition of rare susceptibilities, and nice details and dis- 
criminations ; amplifications of the old case of Ophelia, as 
to whether the woman went to the water, or the water went 
to the woman ! The differences of vulgar opinion ; the 
array of vulgar prejudices ; the free use of legal technicali- 
ties ; and a thousand other abominable little niceties, that 
ought to be gathered up at a grasp, all spread out to the 
utmost stretch — like the shirt of Caesar — scored with 
bloody gashes, each having name and number ! To crown 
all, and to render the “ miching malico” more endurable 
and desirable, you are always sure to have some poor devil 
of an innocent in the way — just where he ought not to be 
— looking very much like the guilty one, and behaving with 
such pains-taking stupidity, that nobody doubts that he is ; 
and he is accordingly laid by the heels, and clapped up in 
prison, to answer to the crime. The genius of the novelist 
then goes to work, in right good earnest, to see how he can 
be got out of the darbies ! This is the notable way to re- 
late such a history usually ; and one might think it a toler- 
ably good way, indeed, were it not that most people find it 
abominably tedious. 

Having seen, for ourselves, how Sharpe was murdered, 
who was the murderer, and how the blow was struck, we 
shall not fatigue the reader in showing how many versions 
of the affair got abroad among those who were, of course, 
more and more positive in their conjectures in proportion 
to the small knowledge which they possessed. We make 
short a story which, long enough already, we apprehend, 
might, by an ingenious romancer, be made a great deal 
longer. 

Suspicion fell instantly on Beauchampe. On whom else 
should it fall ? He had announced his purpose to take the 
life of the criminal ; and, wherever Sharpe’s offence had got 
abroad, people expected that he would commit the deed. 

In our country, a great many crimes afe committed to 

gratify public expectation. Most bf biff duels are fought 
1 r 


338 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


to satisfy the demands of public opinion; by which is urn 
derstood the opinions of that little set, batch, or clique, of 
which some long-nosed Solomon — some addle-pated leader 
of a score whose brains are thrice addled — is the sapient 
lawgiver and head. Most of the riots and mobs are insti- 
gated by half-witted journalists, who first goad the offender 
to his crime, and, the next day, rate him soundly for its 
commission ! He who, in a fit of safe valor, the day before,, 
taunted his neighbor with cowardice for submitting to an. 
indignity, lifts up his holy hands with horror when lie hears 
that the nose-pulling is avenged, and, as a conscientious 
juryman, hurries the wretch to the halter who has only fol- 
lowed his own suggestions in braining the assailant with his 
bludgeon ! All this is certainly very amusing, and, with 
proper details, makes a murder-paragraph in the newspaper 
which delights the old ladies to as great an extent as a 
marriage does the young ones. It produces that pleasura- 
ble excitement which is the mental brandy and tobacco to 
all persons of the Anglo-Saxon breed — for both of which 
the appetite is tolerably equal in both Great Britain and 
America. 

In the case of Beauchampe, the “ Hue and Cry” knew, 
by a sort of conventional instinct, exactly in what quarter 
to turn its sagacious nostrils. 

“ It is Beauchampe that has done this !” was the common 
v vice, as soon as the deed was known. And, by-the-way, 
when public expectation so certainly points to the true 
offender, it is highly probable that it gave the clue to the 
offence in the first instance. It said: “Doit! — it ought 
to bo done !” 

Beauchampe did not much concern himself about the 
4 Hue and Cry,” or even about that great authority “ Pub- 
ic Opinion.” He returned to his own dwelling ; but not 
a ith the feet of fear — not even with those of flight, His 
r jfuey homeward was marked with the deliberation of one 
wiiu feels satisfied that lie has performed a duty, the neglect 


HUE AND CRY. 339 

of which had long been burdensome and painful to his con- 
science. 

It is, of course, to be understood that he was laboring 
under a degree of excitement which makes it something 
like an absurdity to talk of conscience at all. The fanati- 
cism which now governed his feelings, and had sprung from 
them, possessed his mind also. With the air of one who 
has gone through a solemn and severe ordeal, with the feel- 
ing of a martyr, he presented himself before his wife. 

The deliberation of monomania is one of its most re- 
markable features. It is singularly exemplified by one 
portion of Beauchampe’s proceedings. On leaving her to 
seek the interview with Sharpe, he had informed her, not 
only on what day, but at what hour, to look for his return ; 
and he reached his dwelling within fifteen minutes of the 
appointed moment. 

Anxiously expecting his arrival, she had walked down 
the grove to meet him. On seeing her, lie raised his hand-* 
kerchief, red with the bloody proofs of his crime, and waved 
it in the manner of a flag. She ran to meet him, and, as 
he leaped from his horse, she fell prostrate on her face 
before him. Her whole frame was convulsed, and she 
burst into a flood of tears. 

“ Why weep, why tremble ?” he exclaimed. “ Do you 
weep that the deed is done — the shame washed out in the 
blood of the criminal — that you are avenged at last?” 

His accents were stern and reproachful. She lifted her 
hands and eyes to heaven as she replied : — 

“ No ! not for this I weep and tremble ; or, if for this, it 
is in gratitude to Heaven that has smiled upon the deed.” 

But, though she spoke this fearful language, she spoke 
not the true feeling of her soul. We have already striven 
to show that she no longer possessed those feelings which 
would have desired the performance* of the deed. She no 
longer implored revenge. She strove to reject the memory 
of the murdered man, as well as of the wanton crime by 


340 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


which lie had provoked his fate ; and the emotion which 
she expressed, when she beheld the bloody signal waving 
from her husband’s hands, had its birth in the revolting of 
that feminine nature which, even in her, after the long con- 
templation which had made her imagination familiar with 
the crime, was still in the ascendant. But this she con- 
cealed. This she denied, as we have seen. Her motive 
was a noble one. It is soon expressed : — 

44 He has done the deed for me — in my behalf! Shall 1 
now refuse approbation ? shall I withhold my sympathy ? 
No ! let his guilt be what it may, he is mine, and I am his, 
for ever !” 

And, with this resolve, she smiled upon the murderer, 
kissed his bloody hands, and lifted her own to Heaven in 
seeming gratitude for its sanction of the crime. 

But a new feeling was added to those which, however 
conflicting, her words and looks had just expressed. She 
rose from the ground in apprehension. 

44 But are you safe, my husband ?” she demanded. 

44 What matters it?” he replied. 44 Has he not fallen 
beneath my arm ?” 

44 Yes ; but if you are not safe ! — ” 

44 1 know not what degree of safety I need,” was his 
reply. 44 1 have thought but little of that. If you mean, 
however, to ask whether I am suspected or not, I tell you I 
believe I am. Nay, more — I think the pursuers are after 
me. They will probably be here this very night. But 
what of this, dear wife ? I have no fears. My heart is 
light. I am really happy — never more so — since the deed 
is done. I could laugh, dance, sing — practise any mirth 
or madness — just as one, who has been relieved of his pain, 
throws by his crutch, and feels his limbs and strength free 
at last, after a bondage to disease for years.” 

And he caught herein his arms as he Spoke, and his eye 
danced with a strange fire, which made the woman shudder 
to behold it< A cold tremor passed through her veitiS* 


liUE a Mb cry. 341 

“Are you not happy too? — do you not share with me 
this joy ?” he demanded, 

“ Oh, yes, to be sure 1 do !’* she replied, with a husky 
apprehension in her voice, which, however, he did not seem 
to observe. 

“ I knew it — I knew you would be ! Such a relief, end- 
ing in a triumph, should make us both so happy ! 1 never 

was more joyful, my dear wife. Never! never!” — and he 
laughed — laughed until the woods resounded — and did 
not heed the paleness of her cheek ; did not feel the falter- . 
ing of her limbs as he clasped her to his breast ; did not 
note the wildness in her eye as she looked stealthily back- 
ward on the path over which he came. 

She, at least, was now fully in her senses, whatever she 
may have been before. She stopped him in his antics. She 
drew him suddenly aside, into the cover of the grove — for, 
by this time, they had come in sight of the dwelling — and, 
throwing herself on her knees, clasped his in her arms, 
while she implored his instant flight. 

But he flatly refused, and she strove in vain, however 
earnestly, to change his determination. All that she could 
obtain from him was, a promise to keep silent, and not, by 
any act of his own, to facilitate the progress of those who 
might seek to discover the proofs of his criminality. Crime, 
indeed, he had long ceased to consider his performance. 
The change, in this respect, which had taken place in her 
feelings and opinions, had produced none in his. His mind 
had been wrought up to something like a religious frenzy. 
He regarded the action, not only as something due to jus- 
tice— an action appointed for himself particularly — but as 
absolutely and intrinsically glorious. 

Perhaps, indeed, such an act as his should always be 
estimated with reference to the sort of world in which the 
performer lives. What were those brave deeds of the mid- 
dle ages — the avenging of the oppressed, the widow, and 
the o-phan — by which stalwart chiefs made themselves 


342 


BeauChamPe. 


famous ? Crimes, too, and sometimes of the blackest sort, 
but that they had their value as benefits at a period when 
society afforded no redress for injury, and consequently no 
protection for innocence. 

And what protection did society afford to Margaret 
Cooper, and what redress for injury ? Talk of your action 
for damages — your five thousand dollars — and of what 
avail to such a woman, robbed of innocence ; mocked, per- 
secuted ; followed to the last refuge of her life, the home 
•of her mother and her husband : and, afterward, thrice- 
blackened in fame by the wanton criminal, by slanders of 
the most shocking invention ! 

Society never yet could succeed in protecting and redres- 
sing all its constituents, or any one of them, in all his or 
her relations. There are a thousand respects where the 
neighbors must step in ; where, to await for law, or to hope 
for law, is to leave the feeble and the innocent to perish. 
You hear the cry of “ Murder !” Do you stop, and resume 
your seat, with the comforting reflection that, if John mur- 
ders Peter, John, after certain processes of evidence, will 
be sent to the stateprison^r the gallows, and make a goodly 
show, on some gloomy Friday, for the curious of both sexes ? 
Law is a very good thing in its way, but it is not every- 
thing ; and there are some honest impulses, in every manly 
bosom, which are the best of all moral laws as they are 
the most certainly human of all laws. Give ue, say 1, 
Kentucky practice, like that of Beauchampe, as a social 
law, rather than that which prevails in some of our pattern 
cities, where women are, in three fourths the number of in- 
stances, the victims — violated, mangled, murdered — where 
men are the criminals — and where (Heaven kindly having 
withdrawn the sense of shame) there is no one guilty — at 
least none brave enough or manly enough to bring the guilty 
to punishment ! What is said is not meant to defend or 
encourage the shedding of blood. We may not defend the 
taking of life, even by the laws. We regard life as an 


tttlfe i.NB CRY. 


344 

express trust from Heaven, of which, as we should not 
divest ourselves, no act but that of Heaven should divest 
us : but there is a crime beyond it, in the shedding of that 
7ital soul-blood, its heart of hearts, life of all life, the fair 
fame, the untainted reputation ; and the one offence which 
provokes the other should be placed in the opposing bal- 
ance, as an offset, in some degree, to the crime by which it 
is avenged. 


Hi 


RSAUCHAMP*. 


€£iAFTFR XXXV. 

THE DUNGEON. 

We could tell a long story about the manner in which 
Beauchampe was captured ; but it will suffice to say that 
when the pursuers presented themselves at his threshold, 
he was ready, and with the high, confident spirit of one as- 
sured that all was right in his own own bosom, he yielded 
himself up at their summons, and attended them to Frank- 
fort. 

Behold him, then, in prison. The cold, gloomy walls are 
around him, and all is changed, of the sweet, social outer 
world, in the aspects which meet his eye. 

But the woman of his heart is there with him ; and if the 
thing that we love is left us, the dungeon has its sunshine, 
and the prison is still a home. The presence of the loved 
one hallows it into home. Amidst doubt, and privation — 
the restraint he endures, and the penal doom which he may 
yet have sufier — her affection rises always above his 
affiiction, and baffi.es the ills that would annoy, and soothes 
the restraint which is unavoidable. She has a consolation 
such as woman alone knows to administer, for the despond- 
ency that weighs upon him. She can soothe the dark 
hours with her song, and the weary ones with her caress 
and smile. 

But not tc ordinary appeals like these does the wife oi 
his b.som confine her ministry. Her soul rises in strength 
corresponding tc the demands of his. Ardent in his nature, 


THE DUNGEON. 


345 


dttle used to restraint, the circumscribed boundary of his 
prison grows irksome, at moments, beyond his temper to 
endure. At such moments his heart fails him, and doubts 
arise — shadows of the solemn truth which always haunt the 
soul of the wrong-doer, however righteous to his diseased 
mind may seem his deeds at the moment of their perform- 
ance — doubts that distress him with the fear that he may 
still have erred. 

To the pure heart — to the conscientious spirit — there is 
nothing more distressing than such a doubt ; and this very 
distress is the remorse which religion loves to inspire, when 
it would promote the workings of repentance. It is a mis- 
placed and mistaken kindness that the wife of Beauchampe 
undertakes to fortify his faith, and strengthen him in the 
conviction that all is right. We can not blame her, though 
pity ’tis ’twas so. She no longer speaks — perhaps she no 
longer thinks — of the deed which he has done, as an event 
either to be deplored, or to have been avoided. She speaks 
of it as a necessary misfortune. As she found that he de- 
rived his chief consolation from the conviction that the deed 
was laudable, she toils, witli deliberate ingenuity and in- 
dustry, to confirm his impressions. Through the sad, slow- 
pacing moments of the midnight, she sits beside him and 
renews the long and cruel story of her wrong. She sup- 
presses nothing now. That portion of the narrative relating 
to the child, from her previous suppression of which, the 
unhappy man whom he had slain, had striven to originate 
certain doubts of her conduct, and to infuse them into the 
mind of Beauchampe — was all freely told, and its previous 
suppression explained and accounted for. The wife seemed 
tc take a singular and sad pleasure in reiterating this pain- 
ful narrative ; and yet, every repetition of the tale brought 
to her spirit the pang, as keenly felt as ever, of her early 
humiliation. But she saw that the renewal of the story 
strengthened the feeling of self-justification in the mind of 
he.T husband I That was the rock Upon Which he stood, and 

16 * 


34 G 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


to confirm the solidity of that support, was to lighten the 
restraints of his prison, and all the terrors which might be 
inspired by the apprehension of his doom. Of the mere 
stroke of death, he had no fears ; but there is something in 
the idea of a felon death by the halter, which distresses 
and subjugates the strongest nerves. This idea sometimes 
came to afflict the prisoner, but the keen instincts of his 
wife enabled her very soon to discover the causes of his 
depression, and her quick, commanding intellect provided 
her with the arguments which were to combat them. 

S i Do not fear, my husband,” she would say. “ I know 
that they must acquit you. No jury of men — men who 
have wives, and daughters, and sisters, but must not only 
acquit you of crime, but must justify and applaud you for 
the performance of a deed which protects their innocence, 
and strikes terror into the heart of*the seducer. You have 
not been my champion merely, you are the champion of my 
sex. The blow which your arm has struck, was a blow in 
behalf of every unprotected female, of every poor orphan — 
fatherless, brotherless, and undefended — who otherwise 
would be the prey of the ruffian and the betrayer. No 
no ! There can be no cause of fear. I do not fear for you 
I will myself go into the court, and, if need be, plead your 
cause by telling the whole story of my wrong. They sliali 
hear me. I will neither fear nor blush — and they shall 
believe me when they heai^” 

But to this course the husband objected. The heart of a 
man is more keenly alive to the declared shame of one ne 
truly loves, than to the loss of life or of any other great 
sacrifice which the social man can make. Besides, Beau 
champe knew better than his wife what would be permitted, 
and what denied, in the business of a court of justice. Still, 
it was necessary that steps should be taken for his defence. 
At first, he proposed to argue his own case ; but he was 
very soon conscious, after a few moments given to reflec- 
tion on this subject, that his feelings would enter too largely 


THE DUNGEON. 


34 ? 


into his mind to suffer it to do him or itself justice. While 
undetermined what course to pursue, or who to employ, his 
friend Covington suggested the name of Calvert, as that of 
a lawyer likely to do him more justice by far than any other 
that he could name. 

“ I know Colonel Calvert,” said the young man, 44 and I 
can assure you he has no superior as a jury pleader in the 
country. He is very popular — makes friends wherever he 
goes, and is beginning to be accounted, everywhere, the 
only man who could have taken the field against Sharpe.” 

44 But what was it that you told me of his fighting with 
Sharpe on my account !” was the inquiry of Beauchampe, 
now urged with a degree of curiosity which he had neither 
shown nor felt, when the fact was first mentioned to him. 

44 Of that I can tell you little. It is very well known 
that Sharpe and Calvert quarrelled and fought, almost at 
their first meeting. The friends of Sharpe asserted that 
the quarrel arose on account of offensive words which Cal- 
vert made use of in disparagement of Desha.” 

44 Wes, I heard that — now I remember — from Barnabas 
himself.” 

44 Such was the story ; but Sharpe assured me that the 
affair really took place on account of Mrs. Beauchampe.” 

44 Mrs. Beauchampe !” exclaimed the husband. 

The wife, who was present, looked up inquiringly, but 
said nothing. Mr. Covington looked to the lady and re- 
mained silent, while, with a face suddenly flushed, Beau- 
champe motioned to his wife to leave them. When she had 
done so, Covington repeated what had been said by Sharpe 
concerning his duel with Calvert. 

44 It was only some lie of his, intended to help his eva- 
sion. It was to secure the temporary object. I never heard 
of Calvert from my wife.” 

Such was Beauchampe’s opinion. But Covington thought 
otherwise. 

44 A rumor has reached me since,” he added, 44 which 


i\ 48 BEAUCHAMPE. 

leads me to think that the story is not altogether without 
foundation. At all events, whether there be anything in it 
or not, Calvert will be your man for the defence. If any- 
thing is to be done, he will do it. But really, Beauchampe, 
if you have stated all the particulars, they can establish 
nothing against you.” 

44 Ah ! the general persuasion that I ought to kill Sharpe, 
will produce testimony enough. I think I shall escape, 
Covington, but it will be in spite of the testimony. I will 
escape, because of the sentiment of justice, which, in the 
breast of every honest man, will say, that Sharpe ought to 
die, and that no hand had a better right to take his life than 
mine. But you know the faction. They are strong — his 
friends and relatives are numerous. They will strain every 
nerve — spare no money, and suborn testimony enough to 
effect their object. They will fail, I think : I can scarcely 
say I hope, for, of a truth, my dear fellow, it seems to me 
that I have done the great act of my life. I feel as if I had 
performed the crowning achievement. I could do nothing 
more meritorious if I lived a thousand years ; and death, 
therefore, would not be to me now such a misfortune as I 
should have regarded it a month ago. Still, life has some- 
thing for me. 1 should like to live. The thought of losing 
Aer, is a worse pang than any that the mere loss of life could 
inflict.” 

The prisoner was touched as he said these words. A big 
tear gathered in his eye, and he averted his face from his 
companion. Covington rose to depart. As he did so he 
asked : — 

44 Shall I see Calvert for you, Beauchampe ?” 

44 1 will think of it, and let you know to-morrow,” was 
the reply. 

44 The sooner the better. Your enemies are busy, and 
Calvert lives at some distance. He must fce written to, and 
time may be lost, as he may be on the road row somewhere. 
I will look in upon you in the morning.” 


THE DUNGEON. 


349 


u Do so T . shall then be better able to say what should 
be done .. wit think of it to-night : but, of a truth, Cov- 
ington, I do not feel disposed to do anything. I prefer to 
' smam inactive. For what should* I say ? Speak out ? 
That would be against all legal notions of making a de- 
fence. And yet, I know no mode properly of defending 
myself, than by declaring the act my own, and justifying 
it as such. To myself — to my own soul — it is thus justi- 
fied. Qod ! — if it were not! But,' in order to make toil? 
justification felt by the jury, they must know my secret. 
They must hear all that damning tale of her y r:ai and over 
throw, and the serpent-like progress of .a or, whose' nead I 
have bruised for ever ! How can f „etl Hidl 9 That is 
impossible !” 

Covington agreed with the speaker, who proceeded thus : 

“ Well, then, I am silent. The general issue is one of 
form, pleading which I am not supposed to be guilty of any 
violation of the law* of morals — though what an absurdity 
is that! — I plead it, and kcct silent. The onus probandi 
lies with the state — ” 

“ And it can prove nothing, if your statement be correct.” 

“ Non sequitur , my good fellow. My statement is cor- 
rect. Nobody saw me commit the deed. The clothes 
which T wore are sunk to the bottom of the Kentucky river ; 
the dirk is buried ; and I know that, with the exception of 
the great Omniscient, my proceedings were hidden from the 
eyes of all. But it does not follow from this that there 
will be no evidence against me. I suspect there will be 
witnesses enough. The friends and family of Sharpe will 
suborn witnesses. There are hundreds of people, too, who 
readily believe what they fancy ; and conjecture will make 
details fast enough, which the vanity of seeming to know 
will prompt the garrulous to deliver. I am convinced that 
vanity makes a great many witnesses, who will lie for the 
sake of having something to say, and will swear to the lie 
for the sake of having an audience who are compelled to 


860 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


listen to them. With a little management, yon can get 
anything sworn to. You have heard of tho philosopher 
who, under a bet, with some previous arrangement, collect- 
ed a crowd in the street to see certain stars at noonday, 
which soon became visible to as many as looked. Some 
few did not see so many stars as others, nor did they seem 
to these So bright as to the rest ; but all of them saw the 
stars — they were there — that was enough; and some of 
your big-mouthed observers booked a few incipient moons 
or comets, and, of course, were more conspicuous themselves 
in consequence of their conspicuous sight-seeing. If I have 
any fear at all, it will be from some such quarter. The 
friends of Sharpe have already turned upon me as the 
criminal, and other eyes will follow theirs. Those who 
know the crime of Sharpe, will conclude that the deed is 
mine, from a conviction which all have felt that it should 
be mine ; and, not to look to the political manoeuvrers for 
interference, I make no question but they will find the very 
dagger with which the deed was done — perhaps half-a-dozen 
daggers — each of which will have its believer, and each 
believer will be possessed of as many leading circumstances 
to identify the murderer.” 

“ I believe that they will try to convict you, Beauchampe, 
but I can not think, with you, that witnesses are so easy to 
be found.’’ 

“ We shall see — we shall see.” 

“ At all events, a good lawyer, who will probe such wit- 
nesses to the quick, will be the best security against their 
frauds, whether these arise from vanity or malevolence ; 
and I can not too earnestly recommend you to let me see 
or write to Calvert.” 

“ On that point I will give you my answer hereafter,” 
said Beauchampe evasively. 

“ In the morning,” suggested the other. 

“ Ay, perhaps so : at least, Covington, let me see you then.” 

The other promised, and, taking a kind farewell, depart- 


THE DUNGEON. 


351 


c d. 771 ion ho had gone, the wife of Beauchampe reappeared, 
and, with some earnestness of manner, he directed her to 
Lit beside him upon his pallet. 

a Anna,” said he, a you never told me anything of a Mr. 
Calvert. Do you know any such person, and how are you 
interested in him ?” 

I know but one person of the name — an old gentleman 
who taught school at Cliarlemont, But I have neither seen 
nor heard of him for years.” 

“ An old gentleman ! How old ?” 

“ Perhaps sixty or sixty-five,” 

“ Not the same ! But, perhaps, he had a son ? Now, I 
remember, that, when I went to Bowling-Green, there was 
an old gentleman, with a very white head, who seemed inti- 
mate with Colonel Calvert.” 

“ He had no son — none, at least, that I ever saw.” 

“ It is strange !” 

“ What is strange, Beauchampe ?” she asked. 

He then told her all that he had learned from Covington. 
She concurred with him that it was strange, if true ; but de- 
clared her belief that the story was an invention of Sharpe, 
by which he hoped to effect some object which he might 
fancy favorable to his safety. 

“ But, at all events, husband, employ this Colonel Cal- 
vert, of whom Mr. Covington and the public seem to think 
so highly. You have spoken very highly of him yourself ” 

“ Yes,” was the reply ; “ but somehow, Anna, I am loath 
to do anything in my defence. I hate to seek evasion from 
the dangers of an act which I performed deliberately, and 
would again perform, were it again necessary.” 

“ But this is a strange prejudice, surely, Beauchampe. 
Why should you not defend yourself?” 

“ I would, my wife, if defence, in this case, implied justi 
fication.” 

“ And does it not ?” demanded the wife anxiously. 

“No, nothing like it. It implies evasion — the suppres 


362 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


sion of the truth, if not the suggestion of the falsehood 
You are no lawyer, Anna. The truth would condemn me .’ 1 

“ What ! the whole truth !” 

“No — perhaps not; but it would be difficult to got the 
whole truth before a jury : and, even if this could be done, 
could I do it ?” 

“ And why not, my husband ?” she demanded earnestly, 
approaching him at the same moment, and laying her hanl 
impressively upon his shoulder, while her eyes were fixed 
upon his own — 

“And why not? The day of shame — shame from this 
cause — has gone by from us. We are either above or be- 
low the world. At least, we depend not for the heart’s 
sustenance .upon it. Suppose it scorns and reviles us — 
suppose it points to me as the miserable victim of that 
viperous lust which crawled into our valleys with a glozing 
tongue — I, that know how little I was the slave of that foul 
passion, in my own breast, will not madden, more than I 
have done, at its contumelious judgment. They can not 
call me harlot. No, Beauchampe ! I fell ; I was trampled 
in the dust of shame ; I was guilty of weakness, and vanity, 
and wilfulness ; but, believe me, if ever spirit felt the re- 
morse and the ignominy which belong to virtuous repent- 
ance of error, that spirit was mine !” 

“ I know it — do I not know it, dearest?” he said, ten- 
derly taking her in his arms. 

“ I believe you know and feel it ; and this conviction, 
Beauchampe, strengthens me against the world. In your 
judgment I fixed my proper safety for the future. Let the 
world know all — the whole truth — if that will anything 
avail for your justification. Let them speak of me here- 
after as they please. Secure in myself — secure from the 
self-reproach of having fallen a victim to the harlot-appe- 
tite (though the victim to my own miserable vanity and 
folly) — doubly secure in your conviction of the truth ot 
what I say, and am — I can smile at all that follows : I can 


353 


'll-.. jJXGEOK. 

do more, Beauchampe — endure it with patience and forti- 
tude, and without distressing you or myself with the lan- 
g; age of complaint. Do not, therefore, dear Beauchampe, 
the justification which the truth may bring, through 

iy wish to save me from the further exposure. Hear me, 
viif . I assure you, solemnly, in this solemn midnight — 
with no eye upon us in this cold, gloomy dungeon, but 
mat of Heaven — hear me solemnly affirm that though you 
should resolve to spare me, I will not spare myself. If need 
be, I will go into the courthouse— before the assembled 
judges, before the people — and with my own tongue declare 
the story of my shame. Base should I be, indeed, if, to save 
these cheeks from the scarlet which would follow such a 
recital, I could see them hale you to the ignominious gal- 
lows !” 

“ And sooner would I die a thousand deaths on that gal- 
lows, than suffer you to do yourself such cruel wrong !” 

Such was the answer spoken with effort, with husky ac- 
cents, which the criminal made to the strong-minded woman, 
whose high-souled, and seemingly unnatural resolution — 
however opposed to his — yet touched him really as a proof 
of the most genuine devotion. He did not say more ; he 
did not offer to dispute a resolution which he well knew 
'lie could not overthrow ; but he determined, inly, to prac- 
tise some becoming artifice, to deprive her, when the crisis 
of his fate was at hand, of any opportunity of meddling in 
its progress. 

Thus the night waned — the long, dark night, in that 
gloomy dungeon. Not altogether gloomy ! Devotion makes 
light in the dark places. Love cheers the solitude with its 
own pure star-lighted countenance. Sincerity wins us from 
the contemplation of the darkness ; and with the sweet 
word of the truthful comforter in our ear, the fever subsides 
from the throbbing temples, and the downcast heart is lifted 
into hope. That night, and every night, she shared with 
him his dungeon ! 


854 


BEA70E U’T*. 


CHAPTER XXXY1. 

DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LOVE. 

The arguments of Covington, to persuade Beauchampe 
to employ the services of Calvert, were unavailing. He, at 
length, gave it up in despair. The very suggestion which 
Sharpe had made, that Calvert had some knowledge already 
of the wife’s character, and that the duel between himself 
and Calvert had originated in the knowledge of his wrong 
to her — however curious it made Beaucliampe to learn what 
relation the latter could have had to his wife — was also a 
cause, why, in the general soreness of his feelings on this 
subject, he should studiously avoid the professional assist- 
ance of the other. The wife, when Covington took his de- 
parture, renewed the attempt. The arguments of the latter 
had been more imposing to her mind than they were to that 
of the husband ; but, repeated by her, they did not prove a 
jot more successful that when urged by Covington. To 
these she added suggestions of her own, a sample of which 
we have seen in a previous chapter ; but the prisoner re- 
mained stubborn. The wife at length ceased to persuade, 
having, with the quick perception and nice judgment which 
distinguished her character, observed the true point of dif- 
ficulty — one not to be easily overcome — and which was to 
be assailed in a manner much more indirect. She resolved 
to engage the services of Calvert herself. 

Her own curiosity had been raised in some degree by 
what she had heard in respect to this person ; and though 


MfFerent philosophies of love. 355 

slie did not believe the story which Covington got from 
Sharpe, touching the causes of the duel between himself and 
rival, yet the fact that they had fought, and that Calvert 
had been wounded in the conflict with her enemy, of itself 
commended the former to her regard. As the period for 
her husband’s trial drew nigh, her anxieties naturally in- 
creased, so as to strengthen her in the resolution which she 
had already formed to secure those legal services which 
Beauchampe had rejected. Accordingly, concealing her 
purpose she absented herself from the prison, and, having 
secured the necessary information, set forth on her mission. 

Of the prosperous fortunes of William Calvert, some 
glimpses have already been given to the reader in the course 
of this narrative. These glimpses, we trust, have sufficed 
to satisfy any curiosity, which the story of his youth and 
youthful disappointments might have occasioned in any 
mind. We understand, of course, that thrown upon his own 
resources, driven from the maternal petticoats, which en- 
feeble and destroy so many thousand sons, the necessities 
to which he was subjected, in the rough attrition of the 
world, had brought into active exercise all the materials of 
his physical and intellectual manhood. He had plodded 
over the dusky volumes of the law with unrelaxing dili- 
gence. He had gone through his probationary period with- 
out falling into any of those emasculating practices which 
too often enslave the moral sense and dissipate the intellec- 
tual courage of young men. He had graduated with credit ; 
had begun practice with an unusual quantity of business 
patronage, and had made his debut with a degree of eclat, 
which, while it put to rest all the apprehensions of the 
good old man who had adopted him, had effectually recom- 
mended him to the public, as one of the strong men to whom 
they could turn with confidence, to represent the character- 
istics and maintain the rights of the people. 

Of his success, some idea may be formed, if we remember 
the position in which he stood in the conflict with Colonel 


356 beauchaMpe. 

Sharpe. If the latter was the Coryphseus of one pai r V ^ 
William Calvert was regarded by ail eyes as the most 
prominent champion of the other; and though the other 
party might be in the minority, it was not the less obvious 
to most, that, if the success of the party could be made en- 
tirely to depend upon the relative strength of the represen- 
tative combatants, the result would have been very far 
otherwise. The best friends of Sharpe, as we have already 
seen, endeavored to press upon him the belief, which they 
really felt, that, with such an opponent as William Calvert 
in the field against him, it would require the exercise of 
his very best talents in order to maintain his ground. We 
need not dwell longer on this part of our subject. 

But, with the prominence of position, taken of necessity 
by William Calvert, in the political world, was an accumu- 
lation of legal business which necessarily promised fortune. 
In the brief space of three years which followed his admis- 
sion to the bar, his clients became so numerous as to ren- 
der it necessary that he should concentrate his attentions 
upon a more limited circuit of practice. Other effects fol- 
lowed, and the good old man whose name he had taken, 
leaving Charlemont, like his protege, for ever, had come to 
live with him in the flourishing town where he had taken 
up his abode. Here their united funds enabled them to buy 
a fine house and furnish it with a taste which, day by day, 
added some object of ornament or use. 

The comforts being duly considered, the graces were ne- 
cessarily secured, as the accumulation of means furnished 
the necessary resources. Books grew upon the already- 
groaning shelves ; sweet landscapes and noble portraits 
glowed from the walls. With no wife to provide, in those 
thousand trifles for which no funds would be altogether 
adequate, in the shocking and offensive style of expendi- 
ture which has recently covered our land with sores and 
spangles, shame and frippery — the income of William Cal 
/ert w is devoted to the cultivation of such tastes as are 


DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LOVE. 357 

legitimate in the eyes of a truly philosophical judgment. 
Fie sought for no attractions but such as gave employment 
either to the sense of beauty or the growth of the under 
standing. 

The contemplation of the forms of beauty produces in the 
mind a love of harmony and proportion, which, in turn, es- 
tablish a nice moral sense, that revolts with loathing at 
what is mean, coarse, or brutal ; and, with this impression, 
our young lawyer, whenever his purse permitted such out- 
lay, despatched his commission to the Atlantic city for the 
speaking canvass or the eloquent and breathing bust. In 
tastes like these his paternal friend fully sympathized with 
him. In fact they had been first awakened in him by his 
venerable tutor, during the course of his boyish education. 
Thus co-operating, and with habits, which, in other re- 
spects, were singularly inexpensive, it is not surprising that 
the dwelling of William Calvert should already be known, 

am mg the people of , as the very seat of elegance and 

art. Ilis pictures formed a theme among his acquaintance 
— and *even those w r ho were not — which every new addi- 
tion contributed to revive and enlarge ; and, in the inno- 
cent pursuit of such objects of grace and beauty — with 
books, the philosophies and songs, of the old divines of Na- 
ture — her proper priesthood — the days of the youth began 
to go by sweetly and with such soothing, that the memory 
of Margaret Cooper, though it never ceased to sadden, yet 
now failed entirely to sting. He had neither ceased to 
love nor to regret ; but his disappointment did not now oc- 
casion a pang, nor was his regret such as to leave him in- 
sensible to the genial influences which life everywhere 
spreads generously around for the working spirit, and the 
just and gentle heart. 

But, as we have seen, William Calvert was not permit- 
ted, either by his own nature and pursuits, or by the exac- 
tions of society, to indulge simply in the elegancies of life. 
The possession of active talents of any kind, and in all 


858 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


regions, implies a proper impulse to their use. This is 
more particularly the case in our countiy, where the field is 
more free than in all others, more open to ail comers, and 
where the absence of hereditary distinctions and a prescrip- 
tive social prestige compels ambition to strain every nerve 
in the attainment of position. 

The profession of the law itself implies government among 
us, and politics are apt to lay their talons upon all who ex- 
hibit the possession of oratorical powers in connection with 
the pursuit of law. William Calvert, somewhat in spite of 
his own tastes and wishes — for he well knew how slavish 
and degrading were the conditions of public favor in a de- 
mocracy like ours — was forced' to buckle on the armor of 
party, and take the field in a great local contest, which 
contemplated federal as well as state politics. 

We have seen how suddenly his career was arrested and 
suspended for a season, by the bullet, at five paces, of hi3 
political rival. 

His wound — probable owing to the bold course adopted 
by his venerable counsellor — was not a serious one, though 
it laid him up for a space, during which his party was de- 
feated ; a result which many of its able men were pleased 
to ascribe mostly to the fact that their chief speaker was 
thus hors de combat. This conviction strengthened his 
claims in the future, though the immediate battle was lost 
in which he had been engaged at the time. The defeat 
was temporary only — that they all felt; and all parties 
were equally persuaded that the next struggle must eventu- 
ate in the elevation of William Calvert to the full supremacy 
over his own. 

The brief period during which he was confined to his 
chamber by his hurt was one which was crowded with am- 
ple testimonies of his popularity with the many, and the 
grateful esteem with which he was regarded by the select 
and sacred few. The sturdy yeomen thronged to inquire 
about his progress with an interest which showed how 


DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LOVE. 359 

deeply lie bad made bis way into tbe common heart. Nor 
were tbe men of mark less earnest and considerate — less 
solicitous of the fate of one who, as a dangerous rival, must 
either be denounced or conciliated. Higher and more hon 
orable motives were at work, however, in the breasts of 
ethers — too far above the crowd to suffer such as these to 
abridge their sympathies ; and the bedside of our young 
lawyer was honored by the visits of such great men as Clay 
and Crittenden. His wound, though rendering his thigh a 
somewhat sore precinct for a while, was yet productive of 
much balm and soothing for his mind and heart. 

Hut there was one visiter, over all, whose unexpected 
presence was eminently grateful, bringing with it not only 
a true devotion and a genuine sympathy, but recalling so 
many dear and pleasant passages in a past of various sad 
and sweet experiences. As soon as his cousin Ned Hink- 
ley heard of his disaster, he hastened off to see and tend 
upon him, bringing with him nothing but a carpet-bag, with 
a few changes of linen, his violin, and a pair of pistols, con- 
secrated in the family affections by a grandsire’s use of 
them in Revolutionary periods. 

Ned Uinkley, though a good fellow, was inveterate as a 
violinist. Ned relieved the violin by occasional practice 
with the pistols. Ned’s boast was that he could draw an 
equally good sight and bow ; and Ned was especially anx- 
ious to take up the game with Colonel Sharpe — to whom 
he owed an old grudge as Alfred Stevens — just where his 
cousin had ended it. Ned’s conscience troubled him, too, 
as being somewhat the occasion of William’s present suffer- 
ings, as he felt and said, very logically : — 

“ For you see, Willie, if I had shot that fellow Stevens, 
five years ago, as I ought to have done, he wouldn’t have 
been able to put an ounce bullet into your bacon !” 

It was no fault of Ned, we assure you, that he did not 
shoot Stevens. He had every disposition to do that oily 
politician some such touching seryice, 


860 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


Ned Hinkley was a good companion. Tie was lively 
garrulous, full of quip and crank ; could make his fiddle 
speak when his own tongue was tired ; was a very loving 
kinsman, and no humbug. He was as sincere as sunshine. 

He was soon installed beside the couch of the wounded 
man, relieving old Mr. Calvert of his watch, and sharing 
with him the grateful employment of amusing the invalid, 
which he did after a fashion of his own. We give a sample 
of his quality in this sort of performance 

“ Amd how does it feel, Willie ?” 

“ How does what feel ?” 

“ Why, the bullet in your hip.” 

“ There is no bullet there now, Ned. It is extracted. 

“Well, I know that! What I mean to ask is, what is 
the sort of sensation which it leaves behind it ? Rather a 
pleasant one, I suppose !” 

“ Indeed ! a curious supposition, Ned.” 

“ Not so ! In small wounds, such is the case usually 
when they are in a way to heal. I have so found it in my 
own case. When I was getting better of that ugly gash I 
got at muster six years ago — you remember — from Ralph 
Byers, I was really delighted by the sensation. There was 
a sort of pleasant tickling going on all the time, as Nature 
was taking up the old threads and reuniting them. So, 
when I shot off that finger, trying Tom Curtis’s little double 
barrel — after the first pain of the thing was over, I begar 
to feel a sort of pleasure in the sensation ; and I suppose 
there’s good reason for it. Nature, as a matter of course, 
like a good surgeon, will do her best to soothe one’s hurts 
on such an occasion, by some secret remedial processes of 
her own. The fact is, I always found so much pleasure in 
getting well on such occasions, that I found myself always 
pulling and picking at the wound, just to keep up a sort 
of irritation, so as to prolong the duration of the cure.” 

“ Comical ! On the same plan, if you found a medicine ; 
however nauseous, doing its work effectually, you will re- 


DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LOVE. 861 

quire that the dose should be doubled, and take some of 
the physic daily, with the same object — the prolongation 
of the benefit.” 

“Not so — no! The analogy fails, Willie. The skin, 
or flesh, is one thing; but the stomach is another — quite. 
No tampering with that ! It is sacred to fish, flesh, fowl, 
and physic is its abomination. I don’t believe in physic, 
though I do in the pleasure of flesh-wounds.” 

The tuning of the fiddle followed this philosophy ; and* 
under the sedative influences of an original fantasia which 
might have afforded some new ideas to Ole Bull, William 
Calvert sank off into a pleasant slumber, leaving Ned in 
the midst of a backwoods commentary on the nature, the 
sources, and the methods of music, particularly of violin- 
music, which he held to be the proper foundation of every 
other sort. 

Ned Hinkley thus, alternating between his sister’s farm- 
stead and the house of his cousin --the two places being 
some twelve miles apart — continued to visit and console 
William Calvert through the month of his confinement. 

And this was no small sacrifice on the part of Ned, when 
we are told that, in addition to the fatigue of such a ride 
some three or four times a week, he was busily engaged in 
all the rigors of a warm courtship. Of course, he told his 
cousin the whole history of his wooing. 

“ Well — but, Ned, how is it that you have forborne all 
description of Miss Bernard ?” 

“ Sallie Bernard is indescribable, Willie.” 

“ What ! so very beautiful ?” 

“ No ! I don’t think that even a lover would call her 
beautiful.” 

“ Is she so wise, then — so highly endowed with intellect, 
and the graces and accomplishments ?” 

“ No, I can't say that either ! The fact is, Willie, that 
Sallie is nothing more than a clever country-girl — a good 
girl, a loving girl, a gentle girl, and a willing girl — and 

16 


m 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


that word willing go£s a great ways with me in a woman, 
1 don’t go for wisdom, and learning, and great talents, and 
great beauties, and charms, and graces, in a wife, Willie ; 
I go for a woman — a true woman — that knows she’s the 
weaker vessel, and knows what's due to her lord and mas- 
ter. I am after a wife, not a philosopher in petticoats. I 
want a wife who will be the mother of my children ; not a 
conceited fool, who is perpetually trying to show the world 
that she is, more of a man than her husband, as is the case 
generally with all that sort of people, of whom your famous 
Margaret Cooper was a particularly superb brimstone ex- 
ample.” 

“ Nothing of her , Ned,” said the other sadly. “ Tell me 
of your Sallie Bernard.” 

“ Well, perhaps I’d better tell you in poetry. You know 
that I too have written verses, and was no small fish at it, 
as you remember. I am half disposed to think that my 
verses were sometimes quite as good as yours. You re- 
member the lines I wrote upon the old mill at Charle- 
mont ?” 

“ Yes: they were really very good, Ned.” 

“ To be sure they were ! I doubt if you could do better, 
try your best. Then there was the epitaph I made on poor 
old Wolf, my bull-terrier. ’Gad! I liked it better than 
Lord Byron’s on his Newfoundland pup. But I’ve done 
better things since, that I never showed you ; and some of 
my lines about Sallie are, to my thinking, quite good enough 
to be put into a magazine.” 

“ Very likely, Ned — and yet not make you sure of cedar- 
oil immortality. But let’s have your metrical portrait of 
Miss Sallie.” 

“ You shall ! I’m not squeamish about it ; and these 
verses are just about the proper answer to your question. 
They tell you just why I love Sallie, and for what a man 
ought to seek a wife. They’re rough yet, for I haven’t had 
time to pass the smoothing-iron over them. But I’ll work 


DIFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LOVE. 


’em out in ship-shape yet, and make a spiggot or spoil a 
horn. Now, don’t you begin to find fault, and stop me, 
whenever you fancy there’s a hitch in the verse. I’ll bring 
it all right when I turn in to smoothing out.” 

William Calvert gave the required assurance ; and, with 
few more preliminaries — for Ned Hinkley was a down- 
right, to-the-purpose, matter-of-fact fellow — with little non- 
sense or conceiAibout him, and no affectations — he recited, 
or rather chanted, the following rude ballad, which, for the 
backwoods muse, Calvert was inclined to think a very cred- 
itable performance ; and we quite agree with him, and could 
wish to see it married to corresponding harmonies by some 
such priest in music as Mr. Russell : — 

i. 

“You ask me why I love her — 

Why my heart, no longer free, 

Is no more a winged rover, 

Like the forest-bird or bee : 

Ah ! love still hath its season, 

For the heart as for the tree ; 

Would you have a better reason, 

Then my love loves me ! 

I know it well, I know it— 

My love loves me ! 


n. 

“ You say she is not beautiful, 

And it may be so to you ; 

But she’s very fond and dutiful, 

And she’s very kind and true : 
And there’s beauty in the tendemesa 
That every eye can see, 

And something more than loveliness 
In the love she feels for me ! 

I know it well, &c. 

hi. 

" She’s no strong-minded woman, 

And in weighty things unwise ; 
But a loving heart, all human, 

Is to me a deafer prize ; 


364 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


And there’s a sovereign wisdom 
In much loving, do you see ; 

And a pure young soul, in a loving breast 
Makes a woman wise for me ! 

I know it well, &c. 


IV. 

" You may talk of stately damsels, 

With keen wit and manners fine — 

But a true young heart’s affections 
Are the jewels dear to mine ! 

And I own enough of splendor, 

When her loving eyes I see ; 

And I hear sufficient wisdom, 

When she murmurs love to me ! 

I know it well, &c. 

v. 

“ You may try her faith, and tell her 
Of a prouder suitor still — 

One whose name and wealth may bring her 
To whatever state she will ; 

That I’ve naught to boast of power — 
Neither wealth nor fame — yet she 
Will smile — so well I know her — 

And still give her love to me ! 

I know it well, &c.” 


“There — you have it! Now, that’s what I call good 
sense, Willie Calvert, and no bad poetry either.” 

“ It is positively beautiful, Ned, and contains more of 
the true philosophy of love and marriage than half the trea- 
tises ever written. Positively, Ned, you surprise me ! 
Your improvement is prodigious. You must set up the 
poetical sign. Were you, now, in some of the great cities, 
following up some of the popular singers, you could have 
that ballad united to music which would make your name 
famous.” 

“I thought you’d like it, Willie — I knew you would. 
It is a good ballad, Willie — very good ; and it’s true, Wil- 
lie. Sallie Bernard deserves it all She’s the very woman 
of the verses.” 


t>IFFERENT PHILOSOPHIES OF LOVE* 


365 


u And slie has accepted you, Ned ?” 

“ On the fifteenth day of the very next November, Willie, 
we go into cohoot for life- — God willing, and weather per- 
mitting.” 

William Calvert warmly congratulated his kinsman, and 
closed the speech with a deep sigh from the very bottom 
of his heart. 

“ Don’t sigh, William. Your time will come yet. Ah ! 
if you had only fancied some such ’true, sweet, humble- 
hearted, and devoted girl as Sallie, instead of that proud, 
great-eyed, outlawed woman, Margaret Cooper — ” 

“ Hush, hush, Ned! — name her not !” 

The other muttered something more, no doubt expressive 
of the indignation which he felt at the treatment his cousin 
had received from Margaret Cooper. The good fellow had 
never admired that damsel. He was, in truth, afraid of 
her. She was the only person that had ever fairly awed 
him into distance and apprehension. While he still mut- 
tered, William Calvert said : — 

M Open that desk, Ned. and hand me the book in a blue 
cover which you will findr in it.” 

This was done. 

“ I, too, have written some verses lately, Ned, which 
somewhat relate to my own affections. They are, by np 
means, so good as yours, but they will enforce my plea to 
you for forbearance in reference to Margaret.” 

And, without further word, William read the following 
apostrophe : — 

“ Speak not the name, in scorn or blame, 

Nor link her thought with aught of shame, 

Nor ask of me, the guilt to see 
That tore my blossom from the tree ! 

“ We may not crush the thought, or hush 
The tale that still compel's the blush ; 

Bat we may chide the speech, and hide 
The shame, that else would torture pride ! 


33(5 


Beauchampe. 


“ Deep in the heart, a thing apart, 

We shrine the memory of the smart; 

And only gaze on happier days, 

When Love and Pride could gladly praise 

“ There let me hold, nor cheap nor cold, 

The image shrined I loved of old ; 

There let me know the charm, the glow, 

And not the shame, the guilt, the wo ! 

“ Beneath that spell, still let her dwell, 

Pure, bright, as when I loved so well — 

Where, haply taught, the older thought 
Can see of fall or frailty naught. 

“ With Love for guest, the faithful breast 
Shuts out all entrance to the rest, 

And asks no more, from Memory’s store, 

Than what the heart can still adore. 

“ Oh ! when she grew, no more in view, 

The starlike thing that once I knew, 

I deemed her fled, I wept her dead — 

Not frail, not shamed, but lost instead. 

“ Her fall, though fraught with grief, has taught 
Love’s lesson to the sterner thought ; 

And Grief’s worst moan now takes its tone 
From what young Memories loved alone !” 

“Ah! Willie, that’s D a poetical huckleberry above my 
sour rhyming persimmon. How well you do those things ! 
Why, that’s a sort of treble-shotted verse. Now, those 
cursed rhymes won’t come to me when I call for ’em ! — 
They are as obstinate as those abominable spirits of 4 the 
vasty deep’ that turned a deaf ear to Mr. Glendower. You 
must help me, Willie, to polish my ballad, before I send it 
to Sallie Bernard.” 

“Don’t touch it, Ned; it needs no polishing. It is as 
nearly perfect as you can make it. Its very carelessness 
is in its favor as a song. It shows it to be an outpouring, 
a gushing upward, of the fancy, which is the true proof of 
a good thing for music. No, no ! don’t touch it. Its sirn- 


different philosophies of love. 


36 ? 


plicity is its secret. One sees that the art has been entirely 
subservient to Nature, as it always should be in such things. 
But, go and ramble now, Ned, and leave me for a while to 
slumber. Your talk and my own, with such subjects as we 
have been dealing with, have left me a little too much ex- 
cited. Go, and write to Sallie.” 

“ ’Gad ! if she were here !” cried the tall fellow, stretch- 
ing out his arms as if to embrace the universe — 

“If she were only here — smack!” And, so saying, he 
disappeared. 


368 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

THE MEETING. 

“ And do we meet again, 

After that mournful parting ! Both how changed ; 

You with new pinions — mine all soiled and broken !" 

It was when William Calvert had regained his legs and 
b^gan to resume his customary v cations, that Ned Ilink- 
Ly suddenly mado his appearance, one day, almost bursting 
with excitement. The story of the Beauchampes had 
reached his ears ; the marriage of Margaret Cooper with 
Mcauchampe, and the subsequent murder of Colonel Sharpe. 
He was the first to repeal the whole tragedy to the Cal- 
verts. 

Itwa3a story to make them gloomy enough — to strike 
them into silence. When they could speak of the subject, 
it was only in language so inadequate that the topic was 
dropped as by mutual consent. 

“ Can we do anything for them ?” was the question of 
William Calvert. 

It was one which all parties strove to answer but in 
vain. 

Ned Hinkley alone lingered over the subject. 

“ It was her doings, all. She, no doubt, beguiled the 
young fool into marriage. She prompted him to avenge 
her dishon r on the head of Sharpe. I would have done it 
myself* with half an opportunity, but I would have shot my- 
self SOO.UGI- LLa . receive I the reward.” 


THE MEETING. 


369 


William Calvert rebuked the speech in his sternest man- 
ner, and Ned Hinkley rode off, happy in the prospect of a 
wife who was not a strong-minded woman. He left the two 
Calverts to brood together over the melancholy narrative 
which they had heard. 

We have already formed a sufficient idea of the dwelling 
which William Calvert occupied — a dwelling in just corre- 
spondence with his improved fortunes. The reader will 
please go with us while we re-enter it. Ned Hinkley has 
been gone some two hours. We ascend the neat and always 
well-swept porch, and pass through the common hall into 
the parlor. It has now but a single occupant. Old Calvert 
is there alone. His adopted son has retired to his cham- 
ber. He broods alone on the fate of Margaret Cooper, and 
of the wretched young man to whom she has been a fate. 
The old man broods also, sadly too on -the same subject, 
but he is so happy in his own protege, that his mind does 
not yield itself with any intensity, to the case of other par- 
ties, no matter what their futures. And this is a law of our 
nature, else we should suffer unprofitably from those afflic- 
tions, to which we can offer no relief. 

Old Calvert has become older since we last painted his 
portrait. His hair has grown even more silvery and thin 
and his forehead whiter, more capacious, more polished. 
In other respects, however, he seems to have undergone but 
little change. His skin is quite as smooth as ever ; but 
tittle wrinkled ; the crows have not trampled very vigor- 
ously about the corners of his eyes. His heart is compara- 
tively at ease; his eye is bright as of old — nay, even 
brighter than when we last saw it dilating over the valley 
of Charleinont : and, perhaps, with reason. His warmest 
hopes have been gratified ; his worst doubts dissipated ; his 
neart has become uplifted. He has realized the pride of a 
lather without suffering the trials and apprehensions of one ; 
ar*d with heart and body equally in 1 ilth, he is still young 

fir a gentle spirit in age, is not a bad beginning of the 
16 " 


3T0 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


soul’s immortality. He owes this state of mind and body, 
to a contemplative habit acquired in youth ; to the presence 
of a nice governing sense of justice, and to that abstinence 
which would have justified in him the brag of good old 
Adam, in “ As You Like It — 

“ For in my youth I never did apply 
Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood ; 

Nor did not, with unbashful forehead woo, 

The means of weakness and debility ; 

Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, 

Frosty but kindly.” 

The old man sits in the snug, well-cushioned armchair, 
with his eyes cast upward. A smile mantles upon his face. 
His glance rests upon a portrait of his favorite ; and as he 
gazes upon the well-limned and justly-drawn features — and 
as the mild and speaking eye seems to answer to his own 
— the unconscious words tremble out from his lips ! Good 
old man ! — he recalls the early lessons that he gave the 
boy; how kindly they were taken — with what readiness 
they were acquired ; and the sweet humility which followed 
most of his rebukes. Then, he renews the story of the first 
lessons in law — his own struggles and defeats he recalls — 
only, as it would seem, to justify the exultation which an- 
nounces, under his guidance, the better fortunes of the 
youth. 

And thus soliloquizing, he rises, and mounting a chair, 
dusts the picture with his handkerchief, with a solicitude that 
has seen a speck upon the cheek, and fancies a fly upon the 
hair ! This was a daily task, performed unconsciously, and 
under the same course of spiriting ! 

While thus engaged a servant enters and speaks. Ho 
answers^ but without any thought of what he is saying. 
The servant disappears, and the door is re-opened. The 
old man is still busy at the heart-prompted duty. His lip3 
ate equally busy in fixating upon the merits of his favorite, 
lie Still wipes and rewipes the picture ; draws back to ex 


THE MEETING. 


371 


amine the outline ; comments upon eye and forehead ; and 
dreams not, the while, what eye surveys his toils — what ear 
is listening to the garrulous eulogium that is dropping from 
his lips. The intruder is Margaret Cooper — Mrs. Beau- 
champe we should have said — but for a silent preference 
for the former name, for which we can give no reason and 
will offer no excuse. 

She stands in silence — she watches the labor of the good 
old man with mixed but not unpleasant feelings. She rec- 
ognises him at a glance. She does not mistake the features 
of that portrait which exacts his care. She gazes on that, 
too, with a very melancholy interest. The features, though 
the same, are yet those of another. The expression of the 
face is spiritualized and lifted. It is the face of William 
Hinkiey — true — but not the face of the rustic, whom once 
she knew beneath that name. The salient points of feature 
are subdued. The roughness has disappeared, and is suc- 
ceeded by the entreating sweetness and placid self-subjection 
which shows that the moulding hand of the higher civiliza- 
tion has been there. It is William Hinkiey, the gentleman 
— the man of thought, and of the world — whose features 
meet her eye ; and a sigh involuntarily escapes her lips. 
That sigh is the involuntary utterance of the self-reproach 
which she feels. Her conscience smites her for the past. 
She thinks of the young man, worthy and gentle, whom she 
slighted for another — and that other! — She remembers 
the youth’s goodness — his fond devotedness; and, forget- 
ting in what respect he erred, she wonders at herself, with 
feelings of increasing humiliation, that she should have re- 
pulsed and treated him so harshly. But, in those days she 
was mad ! It is her only consolation that she now thinks 
80 . 

Her sigh arrests the attention of the old man and 
awakens him from his grateful abstraction. lie turns, be- 
holds the lady, and muttering something apologetically, 
about the rapid accumulation of dust and cobwebs, he de- 


372 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


seends from the chair. A step nearer to the visiter informs 
him who she is. He starts, and trembles. 

“ You, Miss Cooper : can it be ?” 

“ It is, Mr. Calvert ; but there is some mistake. I 
sought for Colonel Calvert, the lawyer. ” 

“ My son — no mistake at all — be seated, Miss Cooper.” 

“ Your son, Mr. Calvert ?” 

“ Yes, rhy son — your old acquaintance — but here he 
is J” — 

William Calvert, the younger, had now joined the party. 
His entrance had been unobserved. He stood in the door- 
way — his eye fixed upon the object of his former passion. 
His cheeks were very pale ; his features were full of emo- 
tion. Margaret turned as the old man spoke, and their 
eyes encountered. What were their several emotions then ? 
Who shall tell them ? What scenes, what a story, did that 
one single glance of recognition recall. How much strife 
and bitterness — what overwhelming passions — and what 
defeat, what shame, and sorrow to the one ; and to the 
other — what triumph over pain — what victory even from 
defeat. To her, from pride, exultation, and estimated tri- 
umph, had arisen shame, overthrow, and certain fear. 
Despair was not yet — not altogether. To the other, “ out 
of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong came 
forth sweetness.” From his defeat he was strengthened ; 
and from the very overthrow of his youthful passion, had 
grown the vigor of his manhood. 

The thought of William Calvert, as he surveyed the 
woman of his first love, was a natural one: - “ Had she 
been mine !” — but with this thought he did not now repine 
at the baffled dream and desire of Ids boyhood. If the 
memory and reflection were not sweet, at least the bitter 
was one to which his lips had become reconciled by time 
Recalling the mournful memory of the past, his sorrow was 
now rather for her than for himself. His regret was not 
that he had been denied, but that she had fallen fie rec" 


fffft Meeting. 


3?3 


ollected the day of her pride. He recalled the flashes of 
that eagle spirit, which, while it won his admiration, had 
spurned his ptayer. The bitter shame which followed, 
when, by crawling, the serpent had reached the summits 
where her proud soul kept in an eyry of its own, oppressed 
his soul as he gazed upon the still beautiful, still majestic 
being before him. She too had kept something of that no- 
ble spirit which was hers before she fell. We have seen 
how she had sustained herself : — 

“ Not yet lost 

All her original brightness, nor appeared ' 

Less than archangel ruined, and th’ excess 

Of glory obscured — 

and still, as the youth gazed, he wondered — and as he re 
membered, he could not easily restrain the impulse once 
more to sink in homage. But all her story was now known 
to him. Of Sharpe’s murder he was aware ; and that the 
wife of the murderer was the same Margaret Cooper, in 
whose behalf he had himself met the betrayer in single com- 
bat, he was apprized by a private letter from Covington. 

While he thus stood beholding, with such evident tokens 
of emotion, the hapless woman who had been the , cause, 
and the victim, equally, of so much disaster — what were 
her reflections at the sight of him ? At first, when their 
eyes encountered, and she could no longer doubt the iden- 
tity of the Colonel Calvert whom she sought, with the Wil- 
liam Hinkley whom she had so long and yet so little known, 
her color became heightened — her form insensibly rose, 
and her eye resumed something of that ancient eagle-look 
of defiance, which was the more natural expression of her 
proud and daring character. She felt, in an instant, all the 
difference between the present and the past ; between his 
fortune and her own — and, naturally assuming that the 
same comparison was going on in his mind, necessarily 
leading to his exaltation at her expense, she was prepared, 


3?4 beauchamPe. 

with equal look and word, to resent the insolence of his 
triumph. 

But when, at a second glance, she beheld the unequivo- 
cal grief which his looks expressed — when she saw still, 
tnat the fire in his heart had not been quenched — that the 
feeling there had nothing in it of triumph — but all of a 
deep abiding sorrow and a genuine commiseration, her man- 
ner changed — the bright, keen expression parted from her 
glance, and her cheek grew instantly pale. But her firm- 
ness and presence of mind returned sooner than his. She 
advanced and extended to him her hand. 

The manner was so frank, so confiding, that it seemed to 
atone for all the past. It evidently was intended to convey 
the only atonement which, in her situation, she could possi- 
bly oifer. It said much more than words, and his heart was 
satisfied. He took her hand and conducted her to a seat. 
He was silent. It was with great difficulty that he with- 
held the expression of his tears. 

“ You know me, Colonel Calvert,’’ she at length said. “ I 
see you know me.” 

“ Could you think otherwise, Margaret ?” he succeeded 
in replying. “ Could I forget ?” 

“ No ! not forget, perhaps,” she returned ; “ but you 
seem not to understand me. My person, of course, you 
know — who I was — but not who I am ?” 

“ Yes — even that too I know.” 

“ Then something is spared me !” she replied with the 
sigh of one who is relieved from a painful duty. 

“I know the whole sad story, Margaret — Mrs. Beau- 
champe. Can I serve you, Margaret — is it for this you 
seek me ?” 

“ It is.” 

“ I am ready. I will do what I can. But it will be ne- 
cessary to see Mr. Beauchampe.” 

u Car. not that be avoided ? I confess, I come to you 
without his sanction or authority. He is unwilling to seek 


til k Meeting'. 


assistance from the law, and proposes cither to argue his 
own case, or to leave it, unargued, to the just sense of the 
community.” 

The youth mused in silence for a few moments, before ho 
replied. At length : — 

“I will not hide from you, Margaret — forgive me— 
Mrs. Beauchampe — the danger in which your husband 
stands. The frequency of such deeds as that for which he 
is indicted, has led to a general feeling on the part of the 
community, that the laws must be rigorously enforced. 
But—” 

She interrupted him with some vehemence : “ But the 
provocation of the villain he slew — ” 

She stopped suddenly. She trembled, for the truth had 
been revealed in her inadvertence. 

“ What have I said !” she exclaimed. 

“ Only what shall be as secret with me, Margaret, as with 
yourself — ” 

“ Oh, more so, I trust !” she ejaculated. 

“ Do not distress yourself with this. Understand me. 
It was to gather from Mr. Beauchampe the whole truth, 
that I desired to see him. To do him justice, I must know 
from him what may be known by others, and which might 
do him hurt. It is to prepare for the worst, that I would 
seek to know the worst. I will return with you to Frank- 
fort. I will see him. He, as a lawyer, will better under- 
stand my purpose than yourself.” 

“ Ah! I thank you — I thank you, William Hinkley. I 
feel that I do not deserve this at your hands. You are 
avenged — amply avenged — for alBthe past!” 

She covered her face with her hands. Memories, bitter 
memories, were rushing in upon her soul. 

“ Speak not thus, Margaret,” replied the youth in sub- 
dued and trembling accents. “ I need no such atonement 
as this. Believe me, to know what you were, and should 
have been, Margaret, and see you thus, brings to me no 


876 


BEAUCHAM^E. 


feelings but those of shame and sorrow. Such promisd — 
such pride of promise* Margaret—” 

“Ah! indeed! such pride — such pride! — and what a 
fall! — there could not be a worse, William — surely not a 
worse ! — ” 

“ But there is hope still, Margaret — there is hope.” 

“ You will save him !” she said, eagerly. 

“ I trust,” said he, “ that there is hope for him. I will 
try to save him.” 

“ I know you will — I know you will ! But, even then, 
there is no hope. I feel like a wreck. Even if we founder 
not in this storm — even if you save us, William — it will 
be as if some once good ship, shattered and shivered, was 
carried into port by some friendly prow — only to be aban- 
doned as then no longer worth repair. These storms have 
shattered me, William — shattered me quite! I am no 
longer what I was — strong, proud, confident. I fear, 
sometimes, that my brain will go wild. I feel that my 
mind is failing me. I speak now with an erring tongue. 
I scarcely know what I say. But I speak with a faith in 
you. I believe, William, you were always true.” 

“ Ah, had you but believed so then , Margaret ! — ” 

“ I did ! I did beligve so !” 

“Ah, could it have been, Margaret! — could you have 
only thought — ” 

“No more — say no more!” she exclaimed, hurriedly, 
with a sort of shudder. “ Say no more !” 

“ Had it been,” he continued, musingly — “ could it have 
been, there had been now no wreck. Neither of us had 
felt these storms. We had both been happy !” 

“No, no! speak not thus, William Hinkley!” she ex- 
claimed, rising, and putting on a stern look and freezing 
accent. “The past should be — is — nothing now to us. 
Nor could it have been as you say.- There was a fate to 
humble me ; and I am here now to sue for your succor. 
You have nothing to deploVe. You have fortune which you 


THE MEETING. 377 

could not hope, fame which you did not seek — everything 
to make you proud, and keep you happy.” 

“ I am neither proud nor happy, Margaret. You — ” 

“ Enough !” she exclaimed. “ You have promised to 
strive in his behalf. Save him , William Hinkley — and if 
prayer of mine can avail before Heaven, you will feel this 
want no longer. You must be happy !” 

“ Happy, Margaret? — I do not hope for it!” 

She extended him her hand. He took it, and instantly 
released it, though not before a scalding tear had fallen 
from his eyes upon it. Further farewell than this they had 
none. She looked round for old Mr. Calvert, but he was 
no longer in the apartment. 


£78 


BEAUCHAMPEx 


CHAPTER XXXVIII 

“ GUILTY !” 

We pass over the interviews between Beauchampe and 
William Calvert. At none of these was the wife present. 
The former was satisfied to accept the services of one who 
approached him with the best manners of the gentleman, 
and the happy union, in his address, of the sage and law- 
yer ; and he freely narrated to him all the particulars of 
that deed for which he was held to answer. Calvert was 
ut in possession of all that was deemed neceoary to the 
'efonce, or rather of all that Beauchampe knew. 

But, either the latter did not know all , or perjury was 
an easily-bought commodity upon his trial. There were 
witnesses to swear to his footsteps, to his voice, his face, 
his words, his knife and clothes ; though he believed that 
no living eye, save that of the Omniscient, beheld him in 
his approaches to commit the deed. The knife which struck 
the blow was buried in the earth. The clothes which he 
wore were S”nk in the river. Yet a knife was produced 
on the trial as that which had pierced the heart of the vic- 
tim ; and witnesses identified him in garments which he no 
longer possessed, and in which, according to his belief, they 
had never seen him ! 

It is possible that he deceived himself. There can be 
n-. doubt that he was just enough of the maniac, while car- 
rying mt the monomania which made him so, to be con- 
scious of little else but the one stirring, all-absorbing 


“ GUILTY !” 


379 


passion in his mind. Such a man walks the streets, and 
sees no form save that which occupies his imagination ; 
speaks his purpose in soliloquy which his own ears never 
heed ; fancies himself alone, though surrounded by specta- 
tatoi*3. His microcosm is within. He has, while the lead- 
ing idea is busy in his soul, no consciousness of any world 
without. 

Could we record the argument of Calvert — analyze for 
the reader the voluminous and not always consorting testi- 
mony, as he analyzed it for the court— and repeat, word 
for word, and look for look, the exquisite appeal which he 
offered to the jury — we should be amply justified in occu- 
pying, in these pages, the considerable space which such a 
record would require. But we dare not make the attempt ; 
the more particularly, as, however able and admirable, the 
speech failed of its effect. Eyes were wet, sighs were au- 
dible at its close ; but the jury, if moved by the eloquence 
of the advocate, were obdurate, so far as concerned the 
prisoner. The verdict was rendered “ Guilty !” and, with 
the awful wQrd, Mrs. Beauchampe started to her feet, and 
accused herself to the court, not only of participating in 
the offence, but of prompting it. It was supposed to be a 
merciful forbearance that Justice permitted herself to be- 
come deaf, as well as blind, on this occasion. Her wild 
asseverations were not employed against her ; and she failed 
of the end she sought — to unite her fate, at the close, with 
that of him to whom, as she warned him in the beginning, 
she herself was a fate. 

But, though she failed to provoke Justice to prosecution, 
she was yet not to be baffled in her object. Her resolution 
was taken, to share the doom of her husband. For her he 
had incurred the judgment of the criminal, and her nature 
was too magnanimous to think of surviving him. She re- 
solved upon death in her own case, and at the same time 
resolved on defeating, in his, that brutal exposure which 
attends the execution of the laws But of her purpose she 


380 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


said nothing — not even to him whom it most concerned. 
With that stern directness of purpose which formed so dis- 
tinguishing a trait in her character, she made her prepara- 
tions in secret. The indulgence of the authorities permit- 
ted her to see her husband at pleasure, and to share with 
him, when she would, the sad privilege of his dungeon. 
This indulgence was not supposed to involve any risk, since 
a guard was designated to maintain a constant watch upon 
the prisoner ; and it does not seem to have entered into the 
apprehensions of the jailer to provide against any danger 
except that of the convict’s escape. 

The dungeon of the condemned was a close cell, the only 
entrance to which was by a trap-door from above. Escape 
from this place, with a guard in the upper chamber, was not 
an easy performance, nor did it seem to enter for a moment 
into the calculation or designs of either of the Beauchampes. 
The husband was prepared to die ; and the solemn, though 
secret determination of the wife, had prepared her also. 
The former considered his fate with the feeling of a martyr ; 
and every word of the latter was intended to confirm, in 
his mind, this strengthening and consoling conviction. The 
few days which were left to the criminal were not other- 
wise unsoothed and unlighted from without. Friends came 
to him in his dungeon, and strove, with the diligence of 
love, to convert the remaining hours of his life into profit 
able capital for the future grand investment of immortality. 
Religion lent her aid to friendship ; and, whether Beau- 
champe did or did not persist in the notion that the crime 
for which he stood condemned was praiseworthy, at all 
events he was persuaded by her unremitting cares and coun- 
sels that he was a sinner — sinning in a thousand respects, 
for which repentance was the only grand remedy which 
could atone to God for the wrongs done, and left unre- 
paired, to man. 

Among the friends who now constantly sought the cell of 
the criminal, William Calvert was none of the least punctual 


GUILTY ! 


381 


Beauchampe became very fond of him, and felt, in a short 
time, the vast superiority of his mind and character over 
those of his late tutor. The wife, meanwhile, with that 
fearless frankness which knows thoroughly the high value 
of the most superior truth — for truth has its qualities ana 
degrees, though each may be intrinsically pure — had freely 
told her husband the whole history of the early devotion 
of William Calvert, when she knew him as the obscure Wil- 
liam Hinkley ; how, blinded by her own vanity, and the 
obscurity to which the very modesty of the young rustic 
had subjected him, she despised his pretensions ; and, for 
the homage of the sly serpent by whom she had been de- 
ceived — beguiled with his lying tongue, and pleased with 
his gaudy coat — had slighted the superior worth of the 
former, and treated his claims with a scorn as little de- 
served by him as becoming in her. Sometimes, Beauchampe 
spoke of this painful past in the history of his wife and vis- 
iter, and the reference now did not seem to give pain, at 
least to the former. The reason was good : she had done 
with the past. The considerations which now filled her 
mind were all of a superior nature ; and she listened to her 
husband, even when he spoke on this theme in the presence 
of William Calvert himself, with an unmoved and unabashed 
countenance. The latter possessed no such stoicism. At 
such moments his heart beat with a wildly-increased rapidity 
of pulsation, and he felt the warm flush pass over his cheeks 
as vividly and quickly now as in the days of his first youth- 
ful consciousness of love. 

It was the evening preceding the day »f execution. The 
dark hours were at hand. The guard of the prison had 
warned the visiters to depart. The divine had already 
gone. The drooping sisters of Beauchampe were about to 
go for the night, moaning wildly as they went, in anticipa- 
tion of the day of awful moan which was approaching. Fond 
and fervent, and very sad, was the parting, though for the 
uight only, which the condemned gave to these dear twiq 


382 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


buds of his affections. It was a pang spared to him thai 
Lis poor old mother was too sick to see him. When he 
thought of her, and of the unspeakable misery which would 
be hers were she present, he felt the grief lessened which 
followed from the thought that their eyes might never more 
encounter. 

But the sisters went — all went but William Calvert, 
and he seemed disposed to linger to the last permitted mo- 
ment.. His thoughts were less with the condemned man 
than with the wife. His eyes were fixed upon the same 
object. His anxiety and surprise increased with each mo- 
ment of his gaze. Whence - could arise that strange seren- 
ity which appeared in her countenance ? Where did she 
find that strength which, at such an hour, could give her 
composure? Nor was it serenity and composure alone 
which distinguished her air, look, and carriage. There 
was a holy intentness, a sublime decision in her look, which 
filled him with apprehension. He knew the daring of her 
character — the bold disposition which had always possessed 
her to dare the dark and the unknown — and his prescient 
conjecture divined her intention. 

She sat behind her husband, on his lowly pallet. Cal- 
vert occupied a stool at its foot. Beauchampe had been 
speaking freely with all his visiters. He was only moved 
by the feeling of his situation on separating from his sis- 
ters. At all other periods he was tolerably calm, and 
sometimes his conversation ran into playfulness. When 
we say playfulness, we do not mean to be understood as 
intimating his indulgence of mere fun and jest, which would 
have been as inconsistent with his general character as with 
the solemn responsibility of his situation. But there was 
an ease of heart about what he said — an elastic freedom — 
which insensibly colored, with a freshness and vitality, the 
idea which he uttered. 

“Sit closer to me, Anna,” he said to his wife — “sit 
closer. We are not to be so long together, that we c&p 


“ GUILTY V* 


383 


spare there moments. We have no time for distance and 
formality. Calvert will excuse? inis fondness, however an 
noying it might seem between man and wve at ordinary 
periods.” 

He took her hand in his as she drew nig a, and passed his 
arm fondly about her waist. She was silent ; and Calvert, 
thinking of the conjecture which had been awakened in his 
mind by the deportment of the wife, was too full of serious 
and startling thoughts to be altogether assured oi what 
Beauchampe was saying. The latter continued, after a 
brief pause, by a reference of some abruptness to the past 
history of the two : — 

“ It seems to me the strangest thing in the world, Anna, 
that you should ever have refused to marry our friend Cal- 
vert. My days,” he said, turning to the latter as he spoke 
— “ my days of idle speech and vain flattery are numbered, 
Calvert ; and you will do me the justice to believe that I 
am not the man to waste words at any time in worthless 
compliment. Certainly I will not now. But, since I have 
known you, I feel that I could wish to know no more desi- 
rable friend ; and how my wife could have rejected you fc 
any other person — I care not whom — I do not exclude 
myself — I can not understand, unless by supposing that 
there is a special fate in such matters, by which our best 
judgments are set at naught, and our wisest plans baffled 
Had she married you , Calvert — ” 

“ Why will you speak of it?” said Calvert, with an ear 
nestness of tone which yet faltered. The wife was still 
silent. Beauchampe answered : — 

“ Because I speak as one to whom the business of life ;.s 
over. I am speaking as one from the grave. The passions 
are dumb within me. The strifes are over. The vain deli 
cacies of society seem a child’s play to me now. Besides, 
I speak regretfully. For her sake, how much better had 
it been ! Instead of being, as she is now, the wife of a 
convict, doomed to a dog’s death ; instead of the long strife 


38i beauchai^s. 

tLrouo’l. which she has gone; of the niter waste 

of that proud genius which might, under other fortunes, 
have taken such noble flights, and attained such a noble 
eminence — ” 

^ke wife interrupted him with a smile : — 

“ Ah, Beauchampe, you are supposing that the world has 
but one serpent — but one Alfred Stevens! The eagle in 
his flight may escape one arrow, but who shall insure him 
against the second or the third ? I suspect that few per- 
sons at the end of life — of a long life — looking back, with 
all their knowledge and experience, could recommence the 
journey and find it any smoother or safer than at first. He 
is the best philosopher who, when the time comes to die, 
can wash his hands of life the soonest, with the least effort, 
and dispose his robes most calmly — and so gracefully — 
around him. Do not speak of what I have lost, and of 
what I have suffered. Still less is it needful that you should 
.^oeak of our friend’s affairs. - We are all chosen, I suspect. 
Our fortunes are assigned us. That of our friend was never 
more favorable than when mine prompted my refusal of his 
kind offer. I was not made for him, nor he for me. We 
might not have been happy together ; and for the best rea- 
son, since I was too blind and ignorant to see what I should 
have seen — that the very humility which I despised in him 
was the source of his strength, and would have been of my 
security. I now congratulate him that I was blind to his 
merits. £.3 will live ; he will grow stronger with each 
succeeding day ; fortune will smile upon his toils, and fame 
will follow them. At least, w r e will pray, Beauchampe, that 
arch wli: be the case. At parting, William Hinkley — I 
can not call you by the other name now — at parting, for 
ever-— believe this assurance. You shall have our prayers 
And blessings — such as they are — truly, fondly, my friend, 
for we owe much to your help and sympathy.” 

** For ever, Margaret ! — Why should you say for 

oyer ?” 


GUILTY !’ 


385 


Oalvert fastened his eyes upon her as she spoke. She 
met the glance unmoved, and replied : 

“ Will it not be for ever ? To-morrow which deprives 
me of him , deprives me of the world. I must hide from it. 
I have no more business with it, nor it with me. I have 
still some sense of shame — some feelings of sacred sorrow 
— which I should be loath to expose to its busy finger. Is 
not this enough, William Calvert ?” 

“ But I am not the world. Friends you will still need ; 
my good, old father — ” 

She shook her head. 

“ I know what you would say, William : I know all your 
goodness of heart, and thank you from the very bottom of 
mine. Let it suffice that, should I need a friend after to- 
morrow, I shall seek none other than you.” 

“ Margaret,” said William, impressively, “ you can not 
deceive me. I know your object. I see it in your eyes — 
in those subdued tones. I am sure of what you purpose.” 

“ What purpose ? what do you mean ?” demanded Beau- 
champe 

Before he could be answered by Calvert the wife had 
spoken. She addressed herself to the latter. 

“ And if you do know it, William Hinkley, you know it 
only by the conviction in your own heart of what, if not un- 
avoidable, is at least necessary. Speak not of it — give it 
no thought, and only ask of yourself what, to me, to such a 
soul as mine, would be life after to-morrow’s sun has set ! 
Go now — the guard calls. You will see us in the morn 
ing.” 

u Margaret — for your soul’s sake — ” 

The expostulation was arrested by the repeated summons 
of the guard. The wife put her finger on her lips in sign 
of silence. Calvert prepared to depart, but could not for- 
bear whispering in her ears the exhortation which he had 
begun to speak aloud. She heard him patiently to the 
end, and sweetly, but faintly smiling, she shook her l ead, 

T 


386 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


making no other answer. The hoarse voice of the guard 
again summoned the visiter, who reluctantly rose to obey. 
He shook hands with Beauchampe, and Margaret followed 
him to the foot of the ladder. When he gave her his hand 
she carried it to her lips. 

“ God bless you, William Hinkley !” she murmured. 
“ You are and have been a noble gentleman. Remember 
me kindly, and oh ! forgive me that I did you wrong, that 
I did not do justice to your feelings and your worth. Per- 
haps it was better that I did not.’ , 

“ Let me pray to you, Margaret. Do not — oh ! do not 
what you design. Spare yourself.’’ 

“ Ay, William, I will! Shame, certainly, the bitter 
mock of the many — the silent derision of the few — deceit 
and fraud — reproach without and within — all these will I 
spare myself.” 

“ Come ! come !” said the guard gruffly, from above. 
“ will you never be done talking ? Leave the gentleman tc 
his prayers. His time is short!” 

And thus they parted for the night. 


FATAL PURPOSES, 




CHAPTER XXXIX. 

FATAL PURPOSES. 

“ What did Calvert mean, Anna, when he said he knew 
your purpose ?” was the inquiry of Beauchampe, when she 
returned to his side; “what do you intend ? — what pur- 
pose have you ?” 

She put her hand upon her lips in sign of silence, then 
looked up to the trap-door, which the guard was slowly 
engaged in letting down. When this was done, she ap- 
proached him, and drawing a vial from her bosom dis- 
played it cautiously before his eyes. 

“ For me !” he exclaimed — “ poison !” 

A sort of rapturous delight gathered in his eyes as he 
clutched the vial. 

“ Enough for both of us !” was the answer. “ It is laud- 
anum. ’’ 

“ Enough for both, Anna ! Surely you can not mean — ” 

“ To share it with you, my husband. To die with you, 
as you die for me.” 

“Not so! This must not be. Speak not — think not 
thus, my wife. Such a thought makes me wretched. There 
is no need that you should die.” 

“ Ay, but there is, Beauchampe. I should suffer much 
worse were I to live. Where could I live ? How could I 
live? To be the scorned, and the slandered — rto provoke 
the brutal jest, or more brutal violence of the fopling and 
the fool ! For, who that knows my story, will believe in 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


_ny virtue ; and who that doubts, will scruple to approach 
me as if he knew that I had none ! If I have neither joy 
nor security in life, why should I live ; and if death keeps 
us together, Beauchampe, why should I fear to die ? Should 
I not rather rejoice, my husband ?” 

• 4 Ah ! but of that we know nothing. That is the doubt 
— the curse, Anna !” 

44 I do not doubt — I oan not. Our crime, if crime it be, 
is one — our punishment will doubtless be one also.” 

44 It were then no punishment. No, Anna, live ! You 
have friends who will protect you — who will respect and 
love you. There is Colonel Calvert — ” 

44 Do not speak of him, Beauchampe. Speak of none. 
I am resolute to share with you the draught. We tread the 
dark valley together.” 

64 You shall not ! It is in my grasp — no drop shall pass 
your lips. It is enough for me only.” 

44 Ah, Beauchampe ! would you be cruel ?” 

44 Kind only, dear wife. I can not think of you dying — 
so young, so beautiful, and born with such endowments — 
so formed to shine, to bless — ” 

44 To kill rather — to blight, Beauchampe ; to darken the 
days of all whom I approach. This has ever been my fate : 
it shall be so no longer. Beauchampe, you can not baffle 
me in my purpose. See ! — even if you refuse to share with 
me the poison, I have still another resource.” 

She drew a knife from her sleeve and held it up before 
his eyes, but beyond the reach of his arm. 

44 Oh ! why will you persist in this, my wife ? Why make 
these few moments, which are left me, as sad as they are 
short and fleeting.” 

44 1 seek not to do so, dear husband ; nor should my reso- 
lution have this effect. Would you have me live for such 
sorrows, such indignities, as I have described to you.” 

44 You would not suffer them ! Give me the knife, Anna.” 

44 No ! my husband !” She restored it to her sleeve. 44 1 


fatal purposes. 389 

have sworn to die with you, and no pewex on artn 
persuade me to survive.” 

“ Not my entreaties — my prayers, Anna !* 

“ No ! Beauchainpe ! — not oven y ur prayers susd! 
change my purpose ” 

“ Nay, then, . will call the guard !” 

“And if you u:, Beauchampe, the sound of your ^oice 
shall be the signE for me to strike. Believe me, husband, 
l do not speak idly !” 

The knifo vac again withdrawn from her sleeve as she 
ypoko, ani the bared point placed upon her bosom. 

' c Pat it up, dearest ; I promise not to call. Put it up, 
from sight. Believe me — I will not call !” 

“ Do not, Beauchampe ; and do no\ 1 implore you, again 
mek to disturb my resolution. Move me you can not. I 
have reached it only by calmly cansidering what I am, and 
what would be left me when yon are gone. I have seen 
enough in this examination to make me turn with loathing 
frem the prospect. I know that it can not be more so be- 
hind the curtain ; and we will raise it together.” 

“ The assurance, Anna, is sweet to my soul, but I would 
ebil implore you against this resolution To be undivided 
even in death conveys a feeling to my heart like rapture, 
and brings back to it a renewed hope ; yet I dare not think 
of your suffering and pain. I dread the idea of death when 
it relates to you.” 

“ Think rather, my husband, that I share the hope and 
the rapture of which you speak. Believe me only, that I 
joy also in the conviction that in death we shall not be 
divided. The mere bitter of the draught or the pain of the 
stroke is not w r orlhy of a thought. The assurance that 
there will be no interruption in our progress together — 
that death, with us, wdl be nothing but a joint setting forth 
in company on a new journey and into another country — 
that is worthy of every thought, and should be the only 
one !” 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


m 

“ Ay, but that country, Anna ?” 

“ Can not be more full of wo and bitter than this hath 
jeen to us.” 

u It may ! I have read somewhere, my wife, a vivid de- 
scription of two fond lovers — fondest among the fond — 
born, as it were, for each other — devoted, as few have been 
to one another; who, by some cruel tyrant were thrown 
into a dungeon, and ordered to perish by the gnawing pro- 
cess of hunger. At first, they smiled at such a doom. They 
believed that their tyrant lacked ingenuity in his capacity 
for torture, for he had left them together ! Together, they 
were strong and fearless. Love made them light-hearted 
even under restraint ; and they fancied a power of resist- 
ance in themselves, so united, to endure the worst forms of 
torment. For a few days they did so. They cheered each 
other. They spoke the sweetest, soothing words. Their 
arms were linked in constant embrace. She hung upon his 
neck, and he bore her head upon his bosom. Never had 
they spoken such sweet truths — such dear assurances. 
Never had their tendernesses been so all-compensating. 
Perhaps they never had been so truly happy together, at 
least for the first brief day of their confinement. Their 
passion had been refined by severity, and had acquired new 
vigor from the pressure put upon it. But as the third day 
waned, they ceased to link their arms together. They re- 
coiled from the mutual embrace. They shrunk apart. They 
saw in each other’s eyes, a something rather to be feared 
than loved. Famine was there, glaring like a wolf. The 
god was transformed into a demon ; and in another day 
the instinct of hunger proved itself superior to the magnan- 
imous sentiment of love. The oppressor looked in on the 
fourth day, through the grated-window upon his victims — 
and lo ! the lips of the man were dripping with the blood, 
drawn from the veins of his beloved one. His teeth were 
clenched in her white shoulder : and he grinned and growled 


FATAL PURPOSES. 


891 

above his unconscious victim, even as the tiger, wLcts you 
have disturbed ere ho has finished with his prey.” 

“ Horrible ! But she submitted — she repined not. ilc». 
moans were unheard. She sought not, in like it aimer,, to 
pacify the baser, beastly cravings, at the expense of i nic 
she loved. Hers was love, Beauchampe — his was pa?> 
sion.” 

“ Alas ! my wife, what matters it by what name we seek 
to establish a distinction between the sentiments and pas- 
sions ? In those dreadful extremes of situation, from which 
our feeble nature recoils, all passions and sentiments rui 
into one. We love ! — Before Heaven, my wife, I conscien- 
tiously say, and as conscientiously believe, that I love yen 
as passionately as I can love, and as truly as woman eve: 
was beloved by man. It is not our love that fails us, in th:. 
hour of physical and mental torment. It is our strength 
Thought and principle, truth and purity, are poor defences, 
when the frame is agonized with a torture beyond what na 
ture was intended to endure. Then the strongest man de 
serts his faith and disavows his principles. Then the puree . 
becomes profligate, and the truest dilates in falsehood, j. ■ 
is madness, not the man, that speaks. It was madness, or 
the man, that drunk from the blue veins of the beloved O' * 
and clenched his dripping teeth in her soft white shoulder. 1 
The very superior strength of his blood, was the cause of 
his early overthrow of reflection. As, in this respect, sho 
was the weaker, so her mind, and consequently, die sweet 
pure sentiments which were natural to her mind, 1 >e longes 
maintained its and their ascendency, and preserved aei 
from the loathsome frenzy to which the nan was driven 
Ah, of this future, dear wife! This awful, unknown fu 
ture ! Fancy seme penal doom like this — fancy some tiger 
rage in mo — depriving me of the reason, and the sentiments 
which have male me love you, and made mo what I am 
fancy, in place of tne man, the frenzied beast, raging in 
his bloody thirst, rending in his savage hunger - - drinking the 


ar. 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


freon from the beloved one’s veins — tearing the flesh from 
raft white shoulder ! This thought — this fear, Anna — ” 
Is neither thought nor fear of mine ! God is good and 
gracious. I am not bold to believe in my own purity of 
heart, or propriety of conduct. I am a sinner, Beauchampe 
— a proud, stern, fierce sinner. I feel that I am — I would 
that I were otherwise, and I pray for Heaven’s help to be- 
come otherwise — but, sinner as I am, I neither fear nor 
believe, that such penal dooms are reserved for any degree 
cf sin. The love of physical torture is an attribute with 
which man has dressed the Deity. As such torture can not 
be human, so it can not be godlike. I can believe that we 
may be punished by privation — by denial of trust — by 
degradation to inferior offices — but it is the brutal imagi- 
nation that ascribes to God a delight in brutal punishments. 
Nowhere do we see in nature such a feeling manifested. 
Life is everywhere a thing of beauty. Smiles are in heaven, 
sweetness on earth, the winds bring it, the airs breathe it, 
otars smile it, blossoms store and diffuse it — man, alone, 
defaces and destroys, usurps, vitiates, and overthrows. It 
was man, not God, who, in your story, was the oppressor. 
ITs made the prison, and thrust the victims into it. It was 
cot God! And shall God be likened to such a monster ? 
/Vhat idea can we have of the Deity to whom such charac- 
teristics are ascribed ! — ” 

— “ I go yet farther,” she added, after a pause. “I do 
not think, even if our sins incur the displeasure of God, that 
nis treatment of us, however harsh, will be meant as pun- 
ishment. That it will be punishment, I doubt not ; but this 
will be with him a secondary consideration. We are his 
subiects, in his world, employed to carry out his various 
purposes, and set to various tasks. Failing in these, we 
are set to such as are inferior — perhaps, not employed at 
all, as being no longer worthy cf trvst I can not think of 
a severer moral infliction. Where all are ousy — triumph- 
antly busy — pressing forward in the glorious tasks of a life 


FATAL PURPOSES. 


393 


which is all soul — to be the only idle spirit — denied to 
share in any mighty consummation — pitied, but abandoned 
oy the rest — the proffer of service rejected — the sympathy 
of joint action and enterprise denied — a spirit without 
wings — a sluggish personification of moral sloth, and that 
too, in such an empire as God's own — in his very sight — 
millions speeding beneath his eye at his bidding — all bid, 
all chosen, all beloved but one ! Ah ! Beauchampe, to a 
soul like mine — so earnest, so ambitious as mine has been, 
and is — could there be a worse doom!” 

“ No, dearest ! But the subject is dark, and such specu- 
lations may be bold — too bold !” 

“ Why ? Do I disparage God in them ? Does it not 
seem that such a future could alone be worthy of such a 
present — of such a God, as has made a world so various 
and so wondrous ! methinks, the disparagement is in him 
who ascribes to the Deity such tastes and passions as pre- 
side over the inquisitions and the thousand other plans of 
mortal torture, which have made man the hateful monster 
that we so frequently find him.” 

“ Let us speak no more of this, Anna. The subject star 
ties me. It is an awful one !” 

IJ ers was the bolder spirit. 

u And should not our thoughts be awful thoughts ? W br- 
other should we have? The future, alone, is ours — tB? 
be ours in a short time. A few hours will bring ua to the 
entrance. A few hours will lift the curtain, and the v<-\ p 
that we may not disobey will command as to enter.” 

u Not you, Anna — oh ! not you ! Let mo brave t *lone> 
I can not bear to think that you too should be ul off in 
your youth — with all that vigorous min V - tna* eauty — 
that noble heart- - all crushed, blighted — r.cw* vasi bloom- 
ing brightest— buried in the dust — no mere j© apeas, or 
wing, or feel.’ 

“But th j cc net perish, Beauchampe. 1 mjAt gsev 
coward— * I might cling to this file — could I fane ivc.re 

r 


394 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


were no other. But this faith is 'me of my strongest con 
victions. It is an instinct. No reasoning will reach the 
point and establish it, if the feeling be not in our heart of 
hearts. I know that I can not perish quite. I know that 
I must live ; and that poison -draught, or the thrust of this 
sudden knife, I regard as the plunge which one makes, 
crossing a frail trembling bridge, or hurrying through some 
dark and narrow passage. Do not waste the moments, 
which are so precious, in the vain endeavor to dissuade me 
from a sworn and settled purpose. Beauchampe, we die 
together !” 

“ Lie down by me, Anna. You should sleep — you are 
fatigued. You must be weary.” 

“No! I am not weary. At such moments as these we 
become all soul. We do not need sleep. With the passage 
of this night we shall never need it again. Think of that, 
Beauchampe ! What a thought it is.” 

“ Terrible !” 

“ Glorious, rather ! Sleep was God’s gift to an animal 
— to restore limbs that could be wearied — to refresh spir- 
its that could be dull ! What a godlike feeling to know 
that we should need it no longer! — no more yawning — no 
more drowsiness — and that feebleness and blindness, which, 
without any of the securities of death, has all of its incoin 
potencies — when the merest coward might bind, and the 
commonest ruffian abuse, and trample on us. Ah ! the im- 
munities of death! How numerous — how great! What 
blindness to talk of its terrors — to shrink from its glorious 
privileges of unimpeded space — of undiminishing time, 
Already, Beauchampe, it seems to me as if my wings are 
growing. I fancy I should not feel any hurt from the 
knife — perhaps, not even taste the poison on my lips.” 

u Sit by me, at least, if you will not sleep, Anna.” 

“I will sit by you, Beauchampe — nay, I wish to do so; 
Tc t yet mL3i promise not to attempt to dispossess me of the 
knife. I ?uspcc my husband.” 


FATAL PURPOSES. 


395 


“ Why suspect me ?” 

“ I perceive it in the tones of your voice : I know what 
you intend. But, believe me, I have taken my resolution, 
from which nothing will move me. Even were you now to 
deprive me of the weapon, nothing w T ould keep me from i£ 
long. I should follow you soon, my husband ; and the onl; 
effect of present denial would be to deprive me of the pleas- 
ure of dying with you !” 

“ Come to me, my wife ! I will not attempt to disarm 
you. I promise you.” 

“ On your love, Bcauchampe ?” 

“ With my full heart, dearest. You shall die with me. 
It will be a sweet moment instead of a bitter one. For 
your sake only, my wife, would I have disarmed you — 
but my selfish desires triumph. I will no longer oppose 
you.” 

“ Thanks — thanks !” 

She sprang to him, and clung to his embrace. 

“ Will you sleep ?” he asked, as her head seemed to sink 
upon his bosom. 

“ No, no ! I had not thought of that ! I thought only 
of the moment — the moment when we should leave this 
prison.” 

“ Leave it ?” 

“By death! I am tired, very tired, of these walls — 
these walls of life — that keep us in bonds — put us at the 
mercy of the false and the cruel, the base and the mali- 
cious ! Oh, my husband, we have tried them long enough F’ 

“ There is time enough !” he said. “ I would see the 
daylight once more.” 

“ You can only see it through those bars.” 

“ Still, I would see it. We can free ourselves a momsnS 
after.” 

Even while they spoke together, Beauchamps svn& 5 ato 
a pleasant slumber. She pillowed his head upca ner bo- 
som, but had no feeling or thought cf 2 " 3op. Through the 


396 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


grated window she saw a few flitting stars. One by onej 
they came into her sphere of vision, gleamed a little while, 
raid passed, like the bright, spiritual eyes of the departed 
dear ones. When she ceased to behold them, then she 
knew that the day was at hand ; and the interval of time 
between the disappearance of the stars and the approach 
of dawn, though brief, was dark. 

“ Such,” she mused, “ will be that brief period of transi- 
tion, when, passing from the dim, deceptive starlight of this 
life, we enter into the perfect day. That will be momenta- 
rily dark, perhaps. It must be. There may be a state 
of childhood — an imperfect consciousness of the things 
around us — of our own wants — and among these, possi- 
bly, a lack of utterance. Strange, indeed, that the inevi- 
table should still be the inscrutable ! But of what use the 
details ? The great fact is clear to me. Even now things 
are becoming clearer while I gaze. My whole soul seems 
to be one great thought! How strange that he should 
sleep — 60 soundly, too — so like an infant! He does not 
fear death, that is certain ; but he loves life. I, too, love 
life, but it is not this. Oh, of that other ! Could I get 
some glimpses — but this is childish! I shall see it all 
very soon !” 

Beauchampe slept late ; and, bearing his head still on 
her bosom, the sleepless wife did not seek to awaken him. 
Through the intensity of her thought, she acquired an 
entire independence of bodily infirmities. The physical 
nature, completely controlled by the spiritual, was passive 
at her mood. But the soundness of Beauchampe’s sleep 
continued, as it was, after day had fairly dawned, awakened 
her suspicions. She searched for the vial of laudanum 
where she had seen him place it. It was no longer there. 
Sho found it beside him on the couch — it was empty ! 

But h\r. breathing was not suspended. His sleep was 
nature, rad, while she anxiously bent over him in doubt 
whether o strike at once. • y:i\ to sec what further effects 


FATAL PURPOSES. 


397 


might be produced on him by the potion, he awakened. 
His first words at awakening betrayed the still superior 
feelings of attachment with which he regarded her. His 
voice was that of exultation : — 

“It is over — and we are still together! We are not 
divided !” 

“ No ! but the hour is at hand !” 

“ What mean you, my love ? I have swallowed the 
laudanum ! — where am I ?” 

His question was answered as his eyes encountered the 
bleak walls of his dungeon, and beheld the light through 
the iron bars of his window. 

“ God ! the poison has failed of its effect !” 

His look was that of consternation. Her glance and 
words reassured him. 

“We have still the knife, my husband!” 

M Ah ! we shall defeat them still !” 


398 


BEAUCHAMPE. 


CHAPTER XL. 

LAST WORDS. 

“On tho morning of. the fifth of June, eight w. 
and twenty-six,” says the chronicle, “ the drums w i -o h?aro» 
beating in the streets of Frankfort, and avast 
was hurrying toward the gibbet, which was erected on *1 
hill without the town.” 

At the sound of this ominous music, and the clamors of 
that hurrying multitude, Beauchampe smiled sadly. 

“ Strange, that men should delight in such a spectacle — 
the cruel death, the miserable exposure, of a fellow-man ! 
— that they should look on his wri things, his distortions, 
his shame and pain, with composure and desire ! L will 
be cruel to disappoint them, Anna ! Will it not ?” 

“ I think not of them, my husband. Oh, my husband, 
could we crowd the few remaining moments with thoughts 
of goodness, with prayers of penitence ! Oh, that I had 
not urged you to the death of Stevens !” 

“ It was right !” he answered sternly. * “ I tell you, Anna, 
the wives and daughters of Kentucky will bless the name 
of Beauchampe !” 

“ They should, my husband, for your blow has saved 
many from shame and suffering — has terrified many a 
wrong-doer from his purpose. But, though right in you 
to strike, I feel that it was wrong in me to counsel.’* 

“ That can not be ! Do not speak thus, my wife. Let 
hot our last moments be embittered by reproach. Let us 


LAST WORDS. 399 

die in prayer rather. Hark! 1 hear visiters — voices — 
:>omc one approaches !” 

u It is William Hinkley !” she exclaimed. 

The; guard was heard about to remove the trap-door. 
Beauchampe looked up, and, a moment after, he heard 
Mi vife sigh deeply. She then spoke to him, faintly but 
quickly : “ Take it, my husband ! It is not painful.” 

He turned to her, while a sudden coldness seized upon 
his heart. She presented him the knife. 

“ Have you struck ?” he asked, in a husky whisper. The 
wet blade of the knife, already clotty with the coagulating 
blood, answered his question. 

“ Take me in your arms — quickly, quickly, dear husband 
— do not leave me ! I lose you — oh, I lose you !” 

“ No, never ! I come ! I am with you. Nothing shall 
part us. This unites us for ever !” 

And, with the words, he struck the fatal blow, laid his 
lips on hers, and covered her and himself with the blanket. 

“ This is sweet !” she murmured. “ I feel you, but I can 
not see you, husband. Who is it comes ?” 

“ Calvert !” 

The young man descended a moment after. His appre- 
hensions were realized. Margaret Cooper was dying — 
dying by her own hands. 

“ Was this well done, Margaret ?” he asked reproachfully. 

“ Ay, William,” she answered firmly, but in feeble tones. 
“ It was well done ! It could not be otherwise, and I find 
dying sweeter than living. You will forgive me, William ?” 

‘ But God, Margaret ? — ” 

“All! pray for me — pray for me! — Husband — I am 
losing you. I feel you not. This is death ! — it was for 
mo — it wa3 all for me ! 0 Beauchampe ! — ” 

“ She is gone !” cried the husband. 

Calvert* who had assisted to support her, now laid the 
inanimate form softly upon the couch. He was dumb. But 
the cry of Beauchampe had drawn the attention of the guard, 


400 


BEAtJCHAMPE. 


“ What is this — what’s the matter ?” he demanded. 

“Ha! ha! we laugh at you — we defy you!” was the 
exclamation of Beauchampe, holding up the bloody knife 
with which he had inflicted upon himself a second 
We have slain ourselves.” 

“God forbid!” cried the officer, wresting the weapon 
from the' hands of the criminal. 

“ You are too late, my friend : we shall spoil your sport. 
You shall enjoy no public agonies of mine to-day.” 

They brought relief — surgical help — stimulants, and 
bandages. They succored the fainting man, cruelly kind, 
in order that the stern sentence of the laws might be car- 
ried into effect. The hour of execution, meanwhile, had 
arrived. They brought him forth in the sight of the as- 
sembled crowd. The fresh air revived the dying man — 
awakening him into full but momentary consciousness. IIo 
looked up, and beheld where the windows of some of the 
neighboring houses were filled with female forms. He 
lifted his hands to them with a graceful but last effort, 
while he murmured : — 

“ Daughters of Kentucky ! you, at least, will bless the 
name of Beauchampe ! — ” 

This was all. He then sunk back, as they strove to lift 
him into the cart. Before his feet had pressed the felon- 
vehicle, his eyes closed. He was unconscious of the rest. 
Earth and its little life was nothing more to him. He had 
also passed behind the curtain ! 

And here our narrative might fitly end. We have .de- 
posed of those parties whose superior trials and struggles 
constituted the chief interest of our story. But custom 
requires something more ; and the curiosity of the reader 
naturally seeks to knov what of the fortunes of the subor- 
dinates— such of the minor persons of the drama as, by 
their virtues and good conduct, have established a claim 
upon our regards. We, perhaps, need to know whether 


Last words. 


401 


Ned Ilinkley, for example, found his compensative happi- 
ness — as he proposed it to himself— in the affections of the 
fair, simple Sallie Bernard, who had so much commended 
herself to his love by forbearing all “ strong-minded” dem- 
onstrations. Well, we may satisfy this curiosity. Ned 
and Sallie are still in the full enjoyment of life and a vig- 
orous old age, with troops of young Neds and Sallies about 
them. We are persuaded that neither of them regrets or 
repents the union which they formed upon such moderate 
expectations of what was due to each other and the public. 
As they did not marry to please the public, so have they 
proved themselves perfectly satisfied with the simple duty 
of pleasing one another. 

Of the mother of Margaret Cooper, the mother of Beau- 
champe, and his sisters, we know nothing. They wisely 
sheltered their bleeding hearts in obscurity. 

Old Ilinkley and his wife, the parents of William Cal- 
vert, returned from Mississippi to Kentucky, where they 
were living, at last advices, with their son. The success- 
ful career of the latter has, singularly enough, persuaded 
the old man to believe that William’s religion was not, 
after all, of so doubtful a character. His own devotions 
are maintained with the tenacity of his nature ; but, as he 
is satisfied that God approves the virtues whenever he helps 
the fortunes of the subject — a notion which is exceedingly 
current among the Pharisaical, whose self-esteem is the 
chief guardian of their religion, and perhaps its only foe — 
so he saves his son to settle his own account with the Deity, 
on :en f ng himself with an unusually long grace at table, 
:u-d * Asquent voluntary prayer for grace before the family 
retires for the night. 

The good old schoolmaster, who could not be lawyer or 
politician, though with ambition and endowment enough for 
cth, has been gathered to his fathers. He had reached 
«.? rips old age of eighty-one before he yielded to the sa- 
or$i slumber. He subsided from life, as the withered leaf 


402 


BEAUCHAtoPE. 


drops from the tree in autumn, without an effort or strug 
gle. He died A'hile he slept, and no doubt in a swee f 
dream, and with the far-off sounds of angelic music in his 
jars, full of welcome and rejoicing. He was at peace with 
ne world. His last days were cheered by affectionate 
ttrsa and the most loving solicitude. All that he beheld 
and beard was grateful to his matured thoughts and his 
nnoccnt desires. His pride was unselfish, like his hopes. 
It was all grounded in the prosperity of another ! 

And that other ? — 

William Calvert continued to prosper. He never mar- 
ried. He still lives, in a green and vigorous old age, in 
the midst of a noble estate, the fruit of his own well-applied 
industry and honorable energies. He concentrated all his 
talents upon his profession, and his profession made him 
prosperous in turn. His one experiment in politics satis- 
fied all his desires in that direction. For ever after, he 
steadily refused all connection with political life. He was 
wont to say that the sacrifice was quite too great for so 
small an object ; and that, while politics in a democracy 
were admirably calculated to intoxicate and stimulate vani- 
ty, they furnished very unwholesome and unsatisfactory food 
for any real, craving, honest ambition. And he was right. 
He still lives — lives, as we have said, a bachelor — with 
lofty frame, erect carriage, fair, round face, benevolent 
heart, and a calm, sedate mind, always equal to the occa- 
sion, and seeking after nothing more. His affections were 
true to his first and only love ; and sometimes, as if speak- 
ing to himself rather than those about him, he will mention 
the name of Margaret Cooper. This will be followed by a 
deep sigh ; and then, as if suddenly remembering himself, he 
will hurry out of the apartment, and seek refuge in his own. 

And thus he still lives, in waiting — and in hope! 

Let us drop the curtain. 


THE END. 


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